Fire on Dark Water
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1 - MURK SUNSET AND FOUL SUNRISE
Chapter 2 - SOGGY SKIES DRIPPED DOWN
Chapter 3 - A FLIMSY SHIFT ON A BUNKER COT
Chapter 4 - TEN FATHOMS DEEP ON THE ROAD TO HELL
Chapter 5 - CHARTINGS UNDOUBT WHERE A WOMAN HAD BEEN
Chapter 6 - LOOKING UP AT PARADISE
Chapter 7 - LIKE BREAK OF DAY IN A BOOZING KEN
Chapter 8 - DRINK AND THE DEVIL
Chapter 9 - STUFF FOR A PLUCKY JADE
Chapter 10 - YO-HEAVE-HO!
Chapter 11 - DEAD AND BE DAMNED AND THE REST GONE WHIST
Chapter 12 - A SUDDEN PLUNGE IN THE SULLEN SWELL
Chapter 13 - GRIPPED BY FINGERS TEN
Chapter 14 - CHEST ON CHEST OF SPANISH GOLD
Chapter 15 - DARED THE KNIFE AND TOOK THE BLADE
Acknowledgements
AN UNTOLD TALE
There is something about me, ain’t there? You noticed the moment your eyes grew used to the dingy light of the tavern. And you came here, like everyone who struts these worn boards, for tattle of Anne Bonny and pirates. Buy me a dram, tread closer, and my tale will make your eyeballs roll. Do you remember that scoundrel Calico Jack? Well it all started way way way before his day. But what may surprise you is that I myself roved among them—the unsung miscreant—the one that slipped through their net. I see you are tongue-tied and burning to ask how we lived like sows? Rutted like pigs? Killed like boars? I’ll explain, good as I can, but you won’t like my answers, I’m telling you now, mister. There’s no glamour . . . no quest . . . no founding of colonies . . . just the tugging of the moon against fate. Who am I, you finally think to ask. You may as well know—I was Black-beard’s thirteenth wife—and very unlucky for him.
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Copyright © 2011 by Wendy Perriman.
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PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley trade paperback edition / June 2011
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Perriman, Wendy K.
Fire on dark water / Wendy K. Perriman.
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-101-51545-7
1. Romanies—Fiction. 2. Teach, Edward, d. 1718—Fiction. 3. Pirates—Caribbean Area—Fiction. 4. Queen Anne’s Revenge (Sailing vessel)—Fiction. 5. Domestic fiction. I. Title.
PS3616.E78F57 2011
813’.6—dc22
2010054243
http://us.penguingroup.com
For Steve
near and far—always and ever
What fates impose, that men must needs abide;
It boots not to resist both wind and tide.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
January 5, 1719
The severed head bobbed afore the mast of the pirate sloop like a grisly lantern exactly as rumor predicted. But the black eyes now only flickered intermittently when glazed by shafts of sunlight, and the septic snarl was set against further cursing. The trophy—tied by its long gory mane to the bowsprit—twisted on air like licking vipers, conjuring life where it had long since ceased to writhe. Shock had frozen the face in a roar of defiance, and confusion lay trapped in the hazy whites of his eyes. A swollen tongue protruded from the black matted beard while the nose, still screwed up for battle, lay lost in the purpling wax of decaying flesh. The decapitated prize twirled ceremoniously in proof—a public deterrent for fellow buccaneers to witness.
When the townsfolk of Hampton heard the news, they swarmed to the north shore of the river like a flush of vengeful ducks, huffing and squawking to waddle ahead of the press, anxious for confirmation and to claim their brag in history. Is it him? I ran too—eager to know if the law had finally vanquished the Terror of the Seas. I jostled my way toward the front of the mob, and the impact of that spinning skull knotted the breath in the base of my throat. I could scarcely believe in the prize hung before me—The infamous Blackbeard is dead!
Now, I know some folks may contend that I am far too enamored of these sea villains, having recently completed an account of The Life and Strange Surprising Adventures of Robinson Crusoe. But the moment I gazed at the dead captain’s eye pits I felt a compelling urge to begin a new book, although possibly under some pseudonym this time. I have a notion to write a general history of the most notorious pirates, so that their brave and terrible deeds may not fade unrecorded—an idea that came to me as I scanned the crowd surrounding Governor Spotswood and noticed him conferring with some common gypsy wench.
Thinking it strange that the most esteemed gentleman in the colony would be holding court with such a lowly creature, I immediately inquired of a bystander as to who this young slattern might be. I judged she was not yet of age, but even under the youth and grime I could tell she was some gamy thing—all lithe legs and wide, moist eyes. Well, consider my surprise when someone whispered she was Blackbeard’s doxy. And then imagine my utter disbelief when I learned that she was the one who had betrayed him!
It is my deepest desire to interview this trollop—for whom better to give me an insight into the outlaw’s secret kingdom? But as soon as she had identified the dangling head, she scurried into the crowd and was lost to sight. I have just heard rumor that she may be headed for one of the Carribee islands—which is where I will begin my search as soon as I have the resources. Whatever it takes, I must find this wench. For I believe that my entire future enterprise depends upon it. . . .
Daniel Defoe
1
MURK SUNSET AND FOUL SUNRISE
1702–1712
There is something about me, ain’t there? You noticed the moment your eyes grew used to the dingy light of the tavern. And you came here, like everyone who struts these worn boards, for tattle of Anne Bonny and pir
ates. Buy me a dram, tread closer, and my tale will make your eyeballs roll. Do you remember that scoundrel Calico Jack? Well it all started way way way before his day. But what may surprise you is that I myself roved among them—the unsung miscreant—the one that slipped through their net. I see you are tongue-tied and burning to ask how we lived like sows? Rutted like pigs? Killed like boars? I’ll explain, good as I can, but you won’t like my answers, I’m telling you now, mister. There’s no glamour . . . no quest . . . no founding of colonies . . . just the tugging of the moon against fate. Who am I, you finally think to ask. You may as well know—I was Blackbeard’s thirteenth wife—and very unlucky for him.
Folks call me Lola . . . London Lola . . . The Gypsy . . . or just plain Doxy. It depends on who they are and what they’re after. I once claimed to be Cockney but that was to clothe my Romany roots—I wasn’t born nowhere near Bow Bells. So, aye, I’m a gypsy and come from a long strand of travelers. Our lives were spent in tents or on carts, roaming round England from crop to new harvest. The men reaped grain when autumn permitted while youngsters picked fruit in the orchards and fields. My uncles sold horses (acquired by dubious means) and kept the cauldron stewing with fresh-poached game. I learnt many neat skills as I tagged along beside the woods and rivers. When the picking season ended, the caravan rested on Battersea Common and the perpetual battle ensued once again against harsh, icy winter and the even colder townsfolk.
Grandma Vadoma was the knowing one. She told fortunes in the markets for our sustenance and campfire stories for our pleasure on the road. Shona, my ma, was a dancer—exotic, mysterious, mesmerizing. But it wasn’t her face that snagged farmers and sailors, who were drawn to her sinewy hips that slithered and writhed with forbidden allurement. She would tempt in the squares, fields, streets, and taverns, and sometimes sold her nights to a high-enough bidder. I spent ten years absorbing the feminine divine and owe much of my charm to them.
Do you recall that before the Queen Anne’s War there had been a terrible famine? Well, Shona’s income became crucial to the tidbits earned from begging. So in town she frequented the docks and alleyways and was more in demand on her back than on her feet. But I ain’t been told much of the bastard that sired me—excepting he was an Irish sailor who may (or may not) have been called Paddy. He gave me the tint in my chestnut red hair, the blue eyes that marked me Outsider, and apparently paid for his pleasure with a plundered gold doubloon. I was born, inconveniently, at the height of the picking season in a ditch at the edge of a strawberry field. And so was named Lolomura (for the red berries) but everyone knew me as Lola.
By the fifth harvest I was already earning my keep, charming the gentry with Romany ballads and prancing. And you never saw nothing like me—I was a proper little dazzler. I learned that the ladies paid well for tradition and the gents liked it best when I pouted and swayed. So I watched every lilt, every thrust of Ma’s pelvis, and before long my belly worked figures of eight. The nobs would comment on dexterity and timing, admiring the artistry and rhythm, but I spotted how men’s eyes were fixed on Ma’s nipples, and how they drew tighter breath whenever my little arse thrust backward.
Cousin Marko played drum, Stefan fiddled, while Uncle Bo rattled our urgent cup. Then when smog turned to darkness they would pimp my ma and horsy-back me home down potted lanes. But sometimes—when Shona grew sloppy—I had to accompany the punters and sit in the gloom as she slapped and moaned, guarding the payment with full attention so it wouldn’t be plucked from her gin-soaked daze. That, however, all stopped the night a jack-tar grew greedy and tried to have me too. As he pinned me beneath his stinking body Ma ripped his ear with the heft of a chair. See, she never married because some country squire spoilt her at fourteen (but she’d grander plans for me). Anyway, we left that john bleeding and screeching, and after that Uncle Yan took up watch. Yet there in the dust motes, there in the creaking, there in the candlelight as I sat and observed, I realized that men could be equally exploited—if you timed it before their throbbing fell limp.
Then around my tenth year came the blast of fate that changed things forever. We were camped for the season just below Chelsea when the snows started coating St. Paul’s in whiteness and the Thames froze so hard you could slide right across. Shona had the coughing sickness and was stuck to her bed for ages, so one particular Friday me and the minstrels set off to ply the Wayfarer’s Inn in Whitehall. Now, I ain’t one to brag—but Ma never danced any better than I did that evening. The discs in my hair caught the flickering light and gilded me bright as a rainbow trout. I twirled with abandon, my newly learned tambourine melding with the drum and fiddle—vigorous—bursting with ripening promise. As the frozen flakes stealthily covered the roadway the cesspools were cleansed in an icy shroud, but no one wanted to venture out in that wilderness so the men began drinking our hard-earned spoils. The gruffness grew louder, then the fiddle struck up again, and this time a discordant chorus spewed forth. The singing grew ever more lively and it soon became apparent that none of us would be leaving until morning, so the landlord finally shut the front door, took his money, then led his scrawny wife upstairs to bed.
The one remaining barmaid—their daughter Nance—beckoned me away from the noise. She asked, “Are you hungry, love?” I nodded. She smiled and whispered, “Come with me then.” I hesitated for just the briefest moment, glanced across at my merry brethren, and followed the smart young woman into the kitchen. We subtly looked each other up and down and I reckoned she wasn’t no way over nineteen. I saw a tough, perky brunette in a new deck of clothes and she seemed equally delighted with my appearance for she cut me a big chunk of ham and a slice of coarse bread. As I sat washing the supper down with milk she inquired, “What do they call you then, dearie?”
“Lola,” I replied.
“You dance well,” she flattered. I looked coyly away. “How old are you?” She was still smiling as she ran her hand over my cheek and stopped to admire my adornments.
I thought for a while and said, “Ten.”
Nance walked quietly over and closed the kitchen door so we would remain alone. She sat down across the wooden table and looked earnestly into my eyes. Weighing me up. Assessing.
“Are you still a maid?” she asked curtly. I didn’t know what she meant. She recognized the confusion and clarified, “Untouched . . . a virgin . . .” She tried, “Zuhno?”
Ahhh! Now I understood. Had I opened my legs for some fat, drunken punter? I blushed and turned my head.
My response seemed to please her for she gave me a lump of cheese and said excitedly, “How would you like to do a special dance for a gentleman friend of mine?”
I had no idea she was procuring me for some dissolute toff to deflower. And so I considered her proposition. “I ain’t sure. . . .”
“There’s lots of money in it. Pounds and pounds,” she promised.
Pounds and pounds? Just for dancing? It all sounded a bit fishy. But just then I heard Uncle Bo call my name so I stood up to excuse myself. As I was leaving she hissed, “If you want to get rich, come back when they’re sleeping. Wait for my signal. It’s only a short way across town and he’ll treat you like a proper little lady.” She winked and added, “It’ll be worth five quid to you. . . .”
Five pounds? I gasped. That was more than we’d seen all year.
“What about my kin?”
“They’ll be snoring like dogs before long.”
“But I need music. . . .”
“It’s all right, love. He has his own instrument. . . .”
I wasn’t sure because I’d never danced to a piano before. So I asked, “Can’t I just . . .”
But she shook her ringlets and confided, “It’s a private party. But don’t worry, duckie, I’ll be there too—you’ll be safe as houses with me.” Her friendly smile bathed me in comfort while the vain side of childishness convinced me that I truly was an exceptional dancer. I could make my sick ma proud.
Sometime during the witching hour the tavern f
ell into a stupor and gradually—one by one—the eyelids closed. Nance appeared at the kitchen door and when she silently motioned me over I picked my way around the sleeping bodies and headed toward the candlelight, carrying my outdoor boots. Only after she had shut the door did I notice a strange man standing by the chimney breast.
“This is Bertie,” Nance told me. “He works for the gentleman I mentioned before.”
The well-mannered servant removed his hat and feigned a small nod. I felt honored by such charming attention. No one had ever bowed to me before! I didn’t see nothing suspicious about him so I replied with a tiny curtsey. He grinned at his accomplice and said, “She’ll do fine, Nance—if you’re sure she’s fresh.”
“Fresh as a daisy,” the young woman flashed back. “I know how to spot a good mark.” The man nodded and held out a thick velvet cloak that I needed little encouragement to wear. I’d just got my boots tied when Nance picked up a tankard that was resting on the table and said, “Here, love. Drink this.” It looked like ale, and the milk had made me thirsty, so I readily downed the draught.
“What is it?” I thought to ask after I was nearing the bottom. The sediment tasted gritty and a little sour.
Bertie also showed some concern but Nance waved him back with her hand and confided, “Just a touch of snuff to help her relax.” They carefully swaddled me against the cold and together we left through the back door and entered the alley. The streets were so white and empty. We walked awhile toward Westminster, three sets of footprints gradually fizzling to nothingness as they filled up with plump, dewy flakes. Nance chattered encouragement all the way there promising, “No harm will come to you.”