Closest in height to Blackbeard was the man from Barbados they called Caesar. He shadowed his captain’s every move, saying little and ignoring everyone else around. Brawn seemed to wrestle from his clothing, and his skin was so black as to almost seem gray, and he’d the most menacing stare I’ve ever ever seen that halted even the saltiest tar. Their Welsh lieutenant was called Owen Richards. Now, I ain’t certain, but I’m guessing he was bald—on account that he always wore the same red scarf tied grimily round his ears—but he must have been dark-haired at one time because an unfashionable mustache draped his lip like a limp, brown slug. The lieutenant was small but lethal. He delighted in provoking tavern brawls so as to pitch his wits against vanity, and even I’ll admit he was a damn good hand-to-hand fighter. I liked to hear him sing because he kept a fine tune—except you’d to stay him at arm’s length due to his rotten breath. Will Howard was the quartermaster and another Cockney. But I didn’t take to him immediately because he’d one eye of blue and one of brown that pierced and seemed colder than steel. He’d a huge scar on his right arm that some quack had mended with twine. The wound had gaped so long that the hair didn’t grow back and all the inside flesh had set the color of rancid bread dough. Blackbeard’s gunner was a red-headed Scot who clubbed his mane in a braid that fell almost as long as mine. His name was Philip Morton and half his face was covered in curly red whiskers. I couldn’t never understand a word that he grunted but I marveled at the carved ink all over his arms and chest, and I’m not sure he ever heard anything I uttered either as the cannons had left him more than slightly deaf. And last of the bunch was the master, Israel Hands. Hands was also from London, and he had that furtive pickpocket look about him that’s familiar to those who’ve shared the same trade. I didn’t trust his long ferret face, especially when he grinned and showed his solo blackened front tooth. Even for a sea dog he was ugly—all of which helped to make Teach appear the more handsome. Now, we were well aware that anyone associated with Hornigold was a natural enemy of Captain Jennings so Blackbeard and his men came forth under cover of dark—in force—and spent their winnings liberally about to foster as many comrades as possible.
Shortly after sundown on that fateful day, Edward Teach came in to savor our house specialty (pigeon pie) and after supper he and his gang sat quietly in the corner playing some form of dice. A couple of tars from rival crews began competing with each other on blazing fiddles and before the sides could get to scrapping I encouraged the musicians to play together for me. That night I danced like the wind was lifting my sails, light as air and haughtily free. And all the time I could feel Blackbeard’s eyes staring, seeming to lure me closer by hook and crook. Now, at that point I ain’t never had the undivided attention of such a famous rogue before so I showed off my grandest moves with delicate precision and verve. The punters kept shouting for more and more so I performed until my toes began to set numb. Finally I collected the coins thrown, bowed a sweet exit, and ran upstairs to change. Violet was just leaving her room with Albert Spokes. I whispered, “Blackbeard’s downstairs with his officers!”
My friend’s eyes flared at the thought of all that legendary potential so she gave her beau a slap on the behind and pushed him playfully away. “Time to work,” she said. Then she turned back to her room to adorn her charms.
By now Teach and his men were well into the rum. Our landlady—Mary Gee—kept them topped up before their tankards could empty, but she was having a rare time trying to attend to the rest of the rowdy throng as well. When she saw me descending the steps she beckoned me over and said, “Be a good lass and help us out, Lola.” Then she thrust the rum jug into my hand and pushed me toward Blackbeard’s table. I hovered shyly at the elbow of the giant and waited to be given orders, but he was busy whispering to his dark companion, who immediately downed his drink and took up a place by the door.
The rest of the men were chatting amiably while eyeing up the female prospects when the quartermaster suddenly grabbed my sleeve and pointed to Violet who had just rejoined the crowd. “Ho, darling!” he shouted, pulling me closer, “Who’s that corn-head over yonder?”
“Violet,” I muttered. “She’s my mate.”
“Are you Cockney?” he asked. I nodded. “I too,” he replied. “Will’s the name.” He held out his scarred arm for me to shake hands. “Go bring her about, will you, love?” I clasped the jug in both hands and scurried to do as bid. When me and Violet returned I nudged Will’s shoulder, made the introductions, then refilled the almost empty mugs. And suddenly I was staring eye to eye with the formidable Blackbeard. My wrist began to shake and it was all I could do to keep from slopping booze all over the table. He must have gleaned my trepidation because his eyes seemed to soften and his mouth broke into a healthy white smile. Captain Teach winked at me and then thanked me for pouring his rum. Just as I finished, though, he gently placed his huge hand over mine and made me set the jug on the table. I thought I’d soon be getting into trouble from Mary for not doing a good job but Blackbeard suddenly rose from his seat, took two steps backward, and swept me an honest bow.
I curtsied in response as the big man asked, “And what do they call you, my lovely?”
“Lola, sir,” I stuttered. My complexion was red as a glowing ember so I kept my eyes set on the floor.
Blackbeard lifted my face from the chin upward and said, “Captain Edward Teach. Pleased I am to meet you, ma’am.” Then he took my flimsy hand and led me to Caesar’s vacant chair. I didn’t have no idea what was going on, but when I looked across at Will his encouraging expression indicated I should play along as he sat watching the fun with Violet now firmly ensconced on his knee. Blackbeard picked up a ditty bag stuffed under the table and pulled out a beautiful silver chalice, apparently plundered from some passenger on his last cruise. He wiped the edge on his lacy sleeve, then filled it with rum and passed it to me. “Down the cup and you’ll keep the cup!” he promised, then laughed loud and raucously along with his friends as I struggled to empty the contents.
The goblet appeared to belong either in a church or on a wealthy Spaniard’s table for it had the balanced weight of a hefty sum and sparkled like ice in the lantern light. I could feel the rum worming its way to my stomach and, although I knew it would render me drunk, I was confident in my ability to win the challenge. When the last drop touched the rear of my throat I squeezed my lips together and wiped them on the inside of my wrist. Blackbeard hit the empty chalice upside down on the wood and the rest of the table screeched in approval. I reached a tentative hand out to claim my prize, and as no one stopped me I pulled the cup in close and made it my own. Then before any of the gathering could change the rules I shot from the table, scurried upstairs, and locked my reward in the medicine chest, safe from villainous eyes. Then I tidied my hair, pinched my cheeks even rosier, and scooted back to see what else I could snaffle from the infamous Captain Teach.
A short time later I returned to refill the jug from the bar but Blackbeard put a light touch on my shoulder that urged me to sit back down. Imagine my surprise when the Captain himself stood up, returned with a refill, and then proceeded to wait on me as if I were Queen of England! Will Howard had his hands all over Violet’s thighs and without much more of a to-do they rose and groped their way up the creaking stairs. I expected that Blackbeard would make his move on me at any moment but instead he sat searching the depths of my eyes as if mining for something precious. We chatted for ever such a long time and the more he spoke the more relaxed I became. I was actually enjoying his company. “I do think you’re the prettiest wench on this island,” he murmured, brushing his whiskers against my neck. Of course I was used to such flattery from every hopeful punter but somehow the words seemed more sincere coming from such a mouth. I smiled and tried to look coy. “What age are you, girl?” he asked. And while awaiting my answer he brushed my cheek with the edge of his thumb.
I replied, “Fifteen, sir.”
“Mmmm . . .” he mumbled in approval. “My fa
vorite age.”
“Really?” I asked. I thought from the previous parties he liked older women with plenty of chest, but it seems that first impressions were deceptive. As he toyed with my ruddy curls like a plug of tobacco between his fingers I plucked sufficient courage to inquire, “Why, sir?”
I couldn’t see his face but he whispered in my ear, “The breasts are blossoming beyond doubt but the hips rest flat and slender.” This didn’t make no sense to me but I was glad that he found me appealing. Then he told me brief snippets of his wayward life in answer to my childish prompts, although he seemed to be more interested in me—and that had never happened before. Then suddenly the black man returned to our table with the ominous news, “Jennings approaches.”
Quick as the changing tide the men drank up the dregs and dispersed to various points of shadow. I saw them one by one wend their way unobtrusively past Jennings and his cronies. “Have you a room close by?” Captain Teach hissed.
“Aye,” I said. “Come with me.” And before enemy eyes had a chance to adjust to the light I’d whisked the infamous renegade upstairs to my chamber. “Why does Captain Jennings hate you?” I asked as soon as my door was bolted.
Blackbeard gave a wry grin and began removing his belts and weapons to drape on my only chair. “None who sail with Ben Hornigold are much welcome in Nassau, and a pity it is.”
“I heard tell Hornigold stole some of his Spanish silver. . . .” I ventured. “Is that the cause?” Teach grunted and settled on the bed, propping himself comfortable with his back against the wall. “But how does that affect you?” I pressed. For even if Blackbeard had been part of the turncoat crew, the responsibility for betrayal always fell on the commander.
The pirate patted the quilt, encouraging me to join him on the bed, but when I made to take off my clothes he shook his head and indicated to just sit down. I was even more befuddled. “I’m not welcome for another cause—and small blame either,” he confessed. “I once took one of Jennings’s women.”
“Oh . . .” I replied. I immediately thought on James Bonny and then I understood. “Where is she now?” I asked politely.
There was an ominous pause before Teach responded, “To my sorrow she is no longer with us.” I looked into his face for clarification so he added, “She was verily . . . lost at sea.” A disturbing look shaded the previously bright eyes and seemed to close the hatches of memory. I didn’t want to upset my guest none so I hurriedly changed the subject and began telling him how lucky his mate Will was to be with a splendid girl like Violet. Then later I listened to the rich, gruff voice explaining why the young Edward Teach had taken to life at sea.
It seems Blackbeard was the son of a prominent scholar who grew up in the thriving port of Bristol where his father spared no pains on his education, hoping he would follow in the family footsteps to Cambridge University. But he was not inclined to academia, so at the ripe age of twenty-one he married the dark-haired daughter of a wealthy merchant and joined their family business. After several years of trying hard he and the missus finally had a son called Eddie. Now, Blackbeard didn’t know why their child had blond hair and blue irises (when both parents were dark-eyed) until the day he caught his wife making the beast-with-two-backs in their bedchamber with her dissolute fair-haired cousin. Edward was so enraged that he crippled the cuckold with his own bare hands, and left his screaming wife for the first berth away at sea. He never returned—and claimed they had long since divorced. Teach’s passage took him to the West India Islands where he eventually became a privateer operating out of Jamaica during the latter part of the French War. Then he met up with Hornigold, switched to piracy, and now finally commanded his own vessel. But what started as a vengeful escape apparently turned into an ever escalating ride for the thrill. I could tell it was the excitement that brought Blackbeard to life—and the lust for fame that would ward him safe from death.
Now, I know you ain’t never going to believe this but throughout that entire evening the dreaded Captain Teach played the role of perfect gentleman. He sat with his arm round my shoulders, lightly conversing until the last sounds of life faded downstairs, then he gave me a solemn kiss on the fingers, pushed a gold coin into my sticky palm, and made his way softly downstairs where Caesar and Will were waiting. The next day his mast was a small glint on the wavering horizon and I didn’t never see him again until several weeks had passed. But I realized I’d finally got over Jim Bonny when all I could think of was that gentle giant who now invaded my thoughts.
What is this transient thing that folks call love? You’ll probably say something like positive regard or affection, but how do you know if it’s physical desire, emotional fulfillment, or the thrill of adventure instead? We’re so sold on dreams of the happy forever that I wonder just how much contentment survives the leaky years. All the men I’d ever known before were driven by sex, which their prey were conditioned to interpret as love (ever thinking themselves something special). We all know that men need to dominate a challenge that surrenders to their prowess—and in return they’ll provide for any offspring, in a deal always weighted to their favor. Of course, some woman may lead a parallel life without loss of self, but most love comes at a terrible cost, paid for in milk and blood.
Now, somewhere around that time Violet fell pregnant. At first she kept denying her rounding figure and claimed all the rum was making her fatten, but when she eventually realized she was four months gone she threw furious accusations in my direction, cursing me out that my herbals had failed. After she’d calmed down she tried bargaining, bullying me to help her as it was supposedly all my fault. My once-funny mate sank into a deep despair as she tried to reject femininity, but I saw that if I didn’t do something drastic she’d drown in the bile collecting in her stomach. So I reluctantly agreed to aid in her murderous scheme.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked.
“Make me some trade to remove it!” she hissed.
My medicine chest contained tansy, which I ground into powder and administered as tea four times a day. She took the measured doses for over a week, but to no avail. So next I conferred with Mary, who’d once been a madam in York and, on her advice, managed to acquire some opium. But all the laudanum achieved was the worst headache Violet had ever encountered, and not a single stain of blood. Next we tried marjoram mixed with thyme, parsley, and lavender—and then I even got hold of some savin. Nothing, however, would budge the bulge in her belly. In desperation I turned to Pierre, thinking he might know of some remedy, who explained how women in France often sit over boiling pots of steam. But Violet quit that attempt soon as she scalded her intimate parts and was livid I’d asked the counsel of an ignorant man. She begged me to flush her insides with seawater using the metal syringe. I did—but I told her that only worked in the earliest hours when the damage was first done. She tried sleeping in tightened corsets, binding the cords to strangle the life within, but the pressure made her vomit and turn an ashen gray. Then in the middle of the night I heard her shuffling on top of the stairs and was only just able to prevent her from flinging herself to the tavern floor below. And so she made me promise I’d help in her final attempt—she was going to insert a stick and winkle the creature out from its pearly shell. The next afternoon we snuck to her room to perform the crude operation. I gave her a draught of the opium left to help against the pain and then watched in horror as she skewered her insides with a long pointed piece of limb. She screamed as something gave, and gaped in terror at the redness that gushed like mud in a torrent onto her bed.
“What have you done?” I gasped. I’d never seen so much blood as that coating her hands and pooling under her body.
“Can you see it?” she cried. “Is it out yet?” I scanned among the glistening sod looking for a glimpse of skin or bone. “Ahhh!” she screamed. And she grasped her stomach as the first contraction bit like a rabid skunk. I could see her body undulate beneath the soggy material and put my hands either side of the movement to try to ea
se things along. Violet was sweating fit to melt and her eyes were rolling white with agony.
“Push, Violet . . .” I cried. “Push it out!”
“Ohhh!” She gritted her teeth and bore down with all her waning strength. Another huge clot spewed forth and within the deep was a perfect tiny baby. It was limp. We had stunted its only faint chance.
I gave a sorrowful gulp and whispered, “It’s out now. Gone!”
Violet breathed a huge sigh and made a strangled sound with her throat. “Is it . . . Is it dead?” she hushed. I nodded and squeezed her flushed hand.
“I’ll get rid,” I promised. “You just relax now.” But another contraction brought a similar rush and I could see my best mate’s vital force ebbing into the quilt. I tried to stem the flow with blankets, but as soon as I’d got the new one in place it was quickly as soiled as the former. I raised her feet to keep the liquid inside but it still found a way to seep between her powder-white thighs. Violet’s nails were turning blue and I didn’t know what to do.
“Mary!” I screamed. “Mary! Are you home?” There was no response outside the door. So I threw another blanket over the juddering patient and ran out into the street.
My first thought was to find Pierre—he was familiar with all the incoming ships and might know of a surgeon who could help. He looked wisely at the panic on my face, saw the splatter of womanhood that messed up my hands, and instantly guessed what was happening. “It’s Violet!” I screamed. “Help us. . . .”
I vaguely saw Annie in the rear of the shop and watched impatiently as he spoke with her. Then he grabbed me by the elbow and steered me down to the largest sloop refitting in the dock. “Ahoy, messieurs! Where is the surgeon?” he cried. But before either of the pirates could reply, Pierre had squeezed my shoulder and warned, “Stay right here.” Then yelled, “Permission to board!” and ran up the gangplank following the weathered fingers that pointed aft belowdecks. A few minutes later he emerged with a tall gray-haired man who was carrying a dirty bag. He didn’t look much like any doctor I’d ever seen but as beggars can’t be choosers we dragged him to the Silk Ship with the promise of an hour with me after he’d patched up my mate.
Fire on Dark Water Page 17
