Fire on Dark Water

by Wendy Perriman

  As we entered the shop Annie was bent over a piece of cut cloth conversing with the flamboyant Frenchman about a particular design. She looked up from their chatter and sneered a contemptuous huff in our direction saying, “You’re too late. He’s already gone, and good riddance.”

  I nodded that I’d heard that news and then mumbled, “We know. How are you doing, Annie?”

  “Mrs. Bonny to you,” she corrected. “And it’s none of your damn business.”

  Pierre was embarrassed by Anne’s rudeness and said pointedly, “But my dear madame—the Mademoiselles Violet and Lola have been taking good care of Monsieur James. . . .” He knew Violet paid the rent.

  Annie, however, did not. She raised a sarcastic eyebrow and spat, “Oh, I’m sure that the gypsy jade has greased his mast on many a past night, although what he ever saw in such a miserable doxy is quite beyond my ken. . . .” The irate wife threatened to move toward me, but Pierre touched her arm with sufficient import to hold her back. So instead she turned her scathing tongue on Violet and muttered, “And I’ll warrant that you’ve had him too!”

  Violet replied in an even voice, “Aye, Annie. But long before he met with you.”

  “Then the only one he’s not slept with is Pierre I suppose. . . .”

  Her male friend blushed, shrugged his shoulders enigmatically, and then confessed, “Well . . .” He winked at the three of us and there was an uncomfortable pause. Then Annie suddenly burst out laughing. I’m not sure if she believed the outrageous statement (or whether we did either) but his comment broke the tension by highlighting the ridiculousness of this cuckolded wife’s moral inquisition. So the shrewd dressmaker took advantage of the shift in mood and asked politely, “And how may we assist my dear jeunes filles?”

  Violet stepped forward and said bluntly, “We came to see if Anne was doing all right . . . without Jim around, I mean.” The sour edge of Captain Jennings’s memory hovered in the momentary silence.

  Pierre answered emphatically on his friend’s behalf, “The madame is working as my new designer. She has quite the eye!”

  “Really?” I asked. I ain’t never heard of Annie ever taking up a needle and thread before. But as I edged closer to the garment on the table I recognized the flair for detail she may well have engendered. “It’s nice,” I offered. The embroidered pearls were exquisite. “Who’s it for?”

  “Ahhh . . .” Pierre said cryptically. He held his chin in his hand in an infuriating gesture designed to generate more intrigue. “A very special cliente . . . the Señorita Vargas.”

  I suddenly came over chilly for I’d heard of Maria Vargas—the volatile mistress of Chidley Bayard who’d once supposedly decapitated a child for soiling her linen petticoat. But if Anne really did intend to go after Bayard herself then why on earth would she be designing a dress for her rival?

  “You two may accompany me,” Anne suddenly declared. “If you keep your mouths shut.” And why would she want any company tagging along either?

  I nudged Violet’s elbow to see what she thought. She asked slowly, “What’s in it for us then?”

  Anne replied, “An introduction to the most powerful man on these islands. Chidley Bayard is hosting the Council of Pirates—and if he likes the looks of us . . . well . . . it might be very rewarding.”

  “How so?” I ventured.

  “We could be invited to entertain his special guests—some of the most famous men outside Christendom!”

  Violet understood the offer and nodded enthusiastically, her eyes glinting fast as her thoughts. Of course we’d have crashed the ancillary parties anyway—along with every other clamoring skirt—for all our heads had been turned by tales of successful swashbucklers scattering doubloons in their drunken wake.

  Pierre stood with his hand on the half-assembled dress and asked, “Well, who’s going to finish this beading work then?”

  “I will,” I volunteered. I knew that I ran a niftier stitch than Violet and that I could certainly pull a needle with more skill than Anne.

  And so the three of us women came to a fragile truce—born from circumstance, fueled by ambition, and frosted with greedy gilt.

  Later, when we left the shop and headed back to the tavern, I asked Violet what she thought was behind Annie’s offer. She gave me a cheeky wink and said, “I’d already heard from Pierre she’s going after Bayard so I was seeking some advantage for us.”

  My shocked voice exclaimed, “You knew she was going to Bayard’s house and schemed to be taken along?”

  “Aye,” my friend replied. “She’ll be wanting to fit her own design—and if it were me dealing with Maria Vargas I’d bring protection too!” I stared at Violet with wide admiration. She was always one step beyond.

  Now, I’ve often wondered why authority is such a compelling force to romance—how even the ugliest king has lovers lining up to bed him. And it seems to be all tied up with wealth. For a partner may be dependable—but if he’s going to be anything other than a romp in the sack he must also be a provider. Why so? Well, even women like me who are the most independent—who can make their own ways and survive without panderers—would consider a buccaneer captain the grandest of prizes indeed. Perhaps it’s the raw excitement of loving so close to the edge, that point where the dare fires the blood with thrill, and the marrow runs clear of conscience. Or perchance it’s the muscle and sway and protection against coarse lesser evils abroad. Anyhow—the higher the rank the better the plunder—as all potential queens are well aware.

  As we sat in Chidley Bayard’s carriage Anne delivered her instructions. No one was to touch Vargas but her. No one was to speak but she. We were to pass and pin and tuck and snip but only at Anne’s request. I had to hide a dagger tucked in a garter under my skirt and Violet had a loaded pistol smuggled inside the work basket. We were told that Bayard would appear to approve the outfit and then give us the purse for Pierre. And if he liked whatever else he saw we’d most likely all be invited to the grandest orgy this side of paradise.

  Now, as it turned out, Mrs. Bonny was on her finest behavior, all manners and sunshine charm. She deferred to Maria Vargas as if she were royalty, touching her with a servitude I didn’t never know she had in her. The dress fit snug as a kid-leather boot and decked the Spanish beauty in ravishing swathes of ivory, magically setting her inky locks against the dramatic cheekbones. The three of us made appreciative noises and convinced her she shone like a pearl, which actually she did. All went well until the master appeared. He certainly admired his mistress as she twirled and flounced her glory, but when he handed over the payment to Anne I noted he smoothed her wrist with his finger and whispered something low and lewd. Annie stifled a giggle. But when she carefully raised her eyes to meet his own he looked into the fire just a moment too long and then the hell gates opened. Maria Vargas said loud and pointedly, “You three may go now.”

  But it was too late. Chidley Bayard had seen into Annie’s soul and found himself pulled in the furnace like all the others. He coughed, turned to Maria, bowed low toward us and announced, “You three beauties must grace our festivities next week.” He added coldly, “Maria, make the arrangements.” And with that he left us to face her seething wrath. Vargas was very controlled, though, I’ll give her that. She curtly told us to be here for the welcoming party on Friday, that we could keep whatever rewards we made, and that we’d need several dresses throughout the week of any color excepting green or ivory. We grinned to each other as she left the room, already planning our revelry.

  Now, I was so excited I couldn’t hardly sleep but I knew we’d never outmaneuver Annie for the very best pieces of cloth. So instead of vying for glamour I decided to make all my outfits suitable for dancing. Then, when the opportunity arose, I’d be able to leap out above the glittering crowd. I can see you’re wondering why we were so anxious to see and be seen? Because they’d already named the celebrities coming aboard. First we heard that the great Charles Vane was approaching on the Treasure. Vane had been par
t of Jennings’s gang salvaging the silver off Florida but instead of raiding the storehouse he’d waited for one of the restocked galleons to head home before boldly intercepting. The plunder he stole from it made him a wealthy man, one of the most successful. But whispers told of a darker side that was brutal, deceptive, and cruel—he supposedly liked to torture captives and had often cheated his own crew. And perhaps because he was fickle himself, he didn’t trust many a pirate and had left the sloop with a skeleton guard under his newly appointed quartermaster, John Rackham. So that’s why I never got to see the man we’d know as Calico Jack, because he’d to stay aboard the Treasure while his captain attended to business.

  Captain Jennings would also be hosting alongside Chidley Bayard, but another infamous guest was already on the island—the wily Paulsgrave Williams. This buccaneer had partnered Sam Bellamy as commander of the Mary Anne and only serendipity had dragged him to Nassau instead of Davy Jones’s Locker. Bellamy and Williams got separated in fog during the Whydah’ s last cruise so the Mary Anne sailed for Maine (as previously arranged) for a rendezvous in May. Bellamy, of course, never arrived—so after waiting two weeks Williams set sail for Providence as he’d heard there was now a ripe price on his own powdered head. He’d paid Jennings well for some tenuous shelter, and then wisely kept out of his way. I’d seen this punter puffing down the street in a startlingly white wig that looked ridiculous on an old sea dog with such a burnished tan, and the way he swaggered around made it obvious he fancied himself a toff. But even I could tell at a glance—all the silver in Spain couldn’t never refine this marauder.

  Edward Teach, however, was a different breed of man altogether. I immediately noticed him at the opening party because he was a good head taller than anyone else in the room. And I guessed he was the mighty Blackbeard from the legendary whiskers that spread from ears to nipples. But what most surprised me was his demeanor—for he seemed to be a confident, sophisticated man who’d obviously seen both sides of the spinning coin. I knew he was here with Ben Hornigold, but the unlikely partners seemed diverse as sugar from salt. Blackbeard was elegant and well-mannered, and I’d warrant on his finest behavior, while Hornigold was a blustering square-shaped man with a block head and flat plank nose. Everything about Hornigold seemed wooden and blunt, his language splintered and hard. And I noticed right off that the two of them tried unsuccessfully to blend into the crowd without drawing undue attention. There were lots of other captains and crew summoned to the general council but after I’d caught a glimpse of Teach the rest seemed to blur into nothingness.

  Unfortunately though, I didn’t impress anyone special that week because they were all too drunk by the time I got to dancing. The pirates met formally each noon to divide up the waters between them and argue the best means of defying the authorities, all the while drowning their differences in darker spirits. And then came feasting and finally the music. Now, as it turned out, even though women were scarce, every doxy in town was there clamoring round the celebrity guests like vultures picking at eyeballs. Violet did a pretty good trade, being swift and precise in her ministrations, but neither of us got anywhere close to Vane or Williams or Hornigold or Teach. And it didn’t take long for me to realize I’d make most money by following Violet’s lead, so after a brief artistic performance each night I moved my hips to a different dance. Only one time did anyone seem to appreciate my talent and that was toward the end of the week when I capered some old gypsy steps to a skilled accordion. I looked up midway through a leap and thought I saw Blackbeard smiling in my direction, but before my feet even landed, some jade had stuffed his head in her bosom and the two of them stumbled off to the shadows. So after all that anticipation the promise just fizzled and faded into one huge disappointment.

  Except for Anne Bonny. As always, the scheming wench got what she wanted and this time her reward was the podgy Chidley Bayard. Bayard was an incredibly rich merchant (whose sister had married the brother of the governor of Jamaica). He looked like an overripe cherub, rosy-cheeked and oozing out of his beautifully tailored clothing. I imagine he was probably bald under the perfectly coiffed wig and he reminded me of a piglet stuffed for a royal table. But his manner was very convivial, ever laughing and joking and spreading good cheer, and I have to say he’s probably the most generous man I ever did meet. Nothing was spared for his guests. Bayard was quite literally the soul of the party. On the first night he slyly watched Annie’s every move as she flirted and spun her magic. The second night he dared and asked her to join his table, much to Maria Vargas’s annoyance. In between punters I edged close enough to hear stolen snatches of conversation and toward the end of the evening I could tell it wasn’t going too well. Every time Anne opened her lips and her witty quips met with general approval, Vargas would offer some catty retort designed to demean her opponent. And it would likely have worked with any other rival except this one, who had grown up sassy and comfortable among privilege. As the party fell to closure Violet and I picked our way round the fading bodies and went to see if the carriage was still taking guests home. Annie saw us leaving out the corner of her eye and bid us wait for her too, then she gently disengaged Bayard’s hand from her arm and skillfully avoided the slobbery kiss he tried to deliver. I glanced back as we exited and was amused to see him recoiling under the spit of Vargas’s tongue.

  The next night was the one you’ve likely heard of—and I can still see it in my mind as if it happened but last week. Violet and I had been invited to dine with some of the lesser men from Captain Vane’s crew, and halfway through eating Anne made her entrance. She had flagrantly disobeyed instructions and was dressed in a fabulous gown of shimmering green, the exact same shade as the furious hostess. Vargas looked every inch the beauty, but when Annie slid into view, her throbbing sensuality immediately ousted the reigning queen. I gnawed quietly on a chicken leg with eyes as wide as a goldfish, waiting to see how the drama would play. Now Bayard made the mistake of rising to greet her—indicating there was a place at his table—but before Anne could even reach there, Maria Vargas had risen and positioned herself as a buffer. She stopped Anne’s progress with a push to the shoulder, tilting her slightly backward on her heels. Then, in front of the whole company, she raised her right hand and slapped Anne full in the face, cursing her in untamed Spanish. Anne did not flinch, nor move, nor feel for her welting cheek. She looked Vargas over from toe to eye with a tiny grin glazed provocatively on her mouth. “And?” she asked cryptically. Then she pushed her way past the irritating vixen, intent on joining Bayard’s table so he would have to choose between them—knowing that merchants could always tell when overripe goods had spoilt.

  The mellow spectators were whistling appreciatively at this unexpected amusement when a sudden communal roar warned Anne to look back. Vargas had lifted her petticoat and slid an Italian stiletto dagger from inside her boot. She flourished it threateningly in her right hand, balancing the guard on an expert palm. Annie recognized danger, and with no time for deliberation reached instinctively for the sailor’s knife one of the pirates had slid across the ground. She slipped her wrist through the leather thong threaded through the hole in the handle, and as the combatants turned to circle each other both seemed to know this was a duel to death.

  Vargas lunged first. It was a high downward thrust from above the shoulder but the point was not properly aligned with a moving target and Anne twisted her body, managing to bat away the fatal arc. So Vargas lifted for the face, lusting to maim and disfigure the opposition, but this time Annie grappled her wrist and stopped the blow midstrike. Then—to create some breathing room—Anne pushed her off as she started feinting and slashing the air, forcing her rival to stay back. The dagger flew out in a counterplay as the women danced in delicate circles, each seeking for the lunge spot. The crowd smelt raw civet and, riled up like animals, began egging the combatants forward. Men were already betting on the outcome so the chink of coins resounded on numerous tabletops, while the women whistled and jiggled on kn
ees squirming with heated excitement. Maria Vargas moved sleek like a feline, all teeth and claws and dazzling blade, while Annie was fixed as a serpent, savoring the taste on air and waiting to strike her fangs. Hoping to intimidate her prey, Vargas started hurling abuse in high-pitched gobbets of cuss, but this momentary lapse in concentration afforded Anne the path to her throat, and before the Spanish harridan could fire another word the sailor’s knife had slit her neck in a low backhanded slice that spilt the vein. Blood spewed from her throat and gushed all over her darkening dress. The wounded woman sank to her knees and, knowing she couldn’t keep all that gore on the inside, threw out one arm in a gesture for help, pleading to her lover. Bayard sat entranced by the primitive scene enacted on his behalf. Meanwhile, Anne stood over the dying body and watched until the pretty blue lips stopped twitching. Then she calmly cleaned the knife on her opponent’s sleeve, returned the blade to its owner, and glided over to the head table to take up Vargas’s chair. She gave a pointed look at the coins center table and said to the host, “I hope you bet on me.”

  It was apparent to every eye present that Anne Bonny had just become Chidley Bayard’s new mistress. And that was that.

  9

  STUFF FOR A PLUCKY JADE

  EARLY AUTUMN, 1717

  Now I know you’re itching to hear about Blackbeard so I’ll quicken to that part of the tale. Well, shortly after the Council of Pirates the captains scattered to go about business. Edward Teach branched out independent of Benjamin Hornigold, heading north toward Philadelphia while his mentor set sail down the Gulf of Florida for Cuba. Over the next few weeks Blackbeard captured several prizes, among them the Betty and Robert followed by the Good Intent of Dublin. His handpicked crew was sleek and mean, and once they’d acquired enough tobacco and cotton the buccaneers voted to head back to Providence to squander the rewards of their plunder. So the next time I laid eyes on my future husband was the close of September when he slipped into the Silk Ship Inn surrounded by his officers. And a peculiar crew they made too.