He looked into the corner of the cabin and said, “I likes it here.”
“But surely you’d be more comfortable in an ordinary?” I pressed.
That instant he lunged for my right breast and I suddenly understood why he savored my company. I pushed his squeezing hand away as he leered forward to kiss me. His face was screwed in a strange expression and he rasped, “I wants you . . . fair dues!” My response must have shown sufficient ignorance because he explained, “What belongs to Teach belongs to all of us I fancy.” Now, I knew that the pirates shared their booty equally according to code, but I hadn’t reckoned that would mean me as well. I was so taken aback I was speechless. “But I likes you a good deal more than the others. . . .” he confided. And this time when he touched my nipple I was so numb that I let him.
The boatswain rubbed my chest in little rough circles as I blubbered, “What others mean you, Mr. Pell?”
He cracked a dry snort and whispered, “Twelve, on my faith, by some reckoning.”
“Twelve?” I gasped horrified. “Twelve what. . . ?”
“Wives,” he cooed, trying to arouse my passions elsewhere. “Went and married all of them true enough.”
“He’s . . . twelve . . . mean you—I’m his thirteenth wife then?” My stomach lurched with his sickening grin.
“Aye—but here’s the thing,” he murmured into my hair. “If you please me, my service will be yours when the time comes.”
“Service?” I echoed.
“Upon my life I’ll vouch to keep you safe.”
“From what?” I asked.
He sighed sadly, then let go of my breast for the top of my leg. As his hand crept closer to my inner thigh he mused, “Blackbeard . . .”
“He won’t hurt me!” I protested.
“From his men . . .” he explained.
I didn’t have no idea what he was insinuating so I asked him to speak out plainly. He responded by telling me the fate of some former Mrs. Teaches. Apparently, once the commodore had taken his fill of his woman he offered her up to the rest of the crew on some inescapable island where no questions were asked about who did what. And—rumor has it—none of these wenches were ever seen again.
“He means to abandon me likewise?” I asked incredulously.
Pell nodded, and then glued his whiskery mouth to my lips. “It’s only on account of him needing an apothecary that you’ve gone and lasted this long,” he explained.
I let him lower me onto the bed and fumble around in my linens. My mind was flipping cartwheels as I tried to make sense of this cruel information. “When will he . . . ?” I asked, responding automatically to the rubbing on my crotch.
“Soon,” he said huskily. Then he stuck a sloppy tongue in my ear that was supposed to excite me. I let Ignatius Pell do his worst and after he’d taken his fun he squashed me tightly to his wiry frame. A little later he warned, “Now, don’t you let on what we just done here. . . .”
“But,” I exclaimed, “you said . . . !”
He gripped my ear and squashed it tightly in his clenched fist as he warned, “No telling what Blackbeard might do if he found out.”
I scooted off the bunk and pulled my skirt down, growing ever more confused and terrified by the moment. Pell gave a contented belch and found a comfortable position among the blankets. As he settled down to sleep he said, “See you on the morrow, my lovely.”
And I finally realized that I’d just fallen foul of another pirate ruse—but that, unfortunately, was that.
12
A SUDDEN PLUNGE IN THE SULLEN SWELL
1717–1718
Once the Queen Anne’s Revenge had been cleaned out and refitted specific to our needs the convoy set sail for the Indies. The ship’s cabin roof had been lowered to make the silhouette less visible on open water, and the bulwarks and gunwales raised for concealment and added protection. There were only fourteen cannons on-board when Blackbeard captured the vessel but now she boasted fresh-cut portals with twenty-two guns and enough full crews to man them. All of which kept Teach so very busy he didn’t seem to notice Pell’s promiscuous advances. I was now sharing the main flagship cabin alongside my husband but most evenings he drank and gambled with the men, occasionally joining me for a game of chess, and whenever he was otherwise engaged I found myself on my knees at the boatswain’s behest in all the dank dark shadows where few ever ventured.
Our cruise went from success to further conquest as we captured a low-loaded merchantman called the Great Allen. Now, this particular vessel sailed out of Boston (where the rash townsfolk had recently executed Bellamy’s shipwrecked survivors) so Teach took particular pains to show the petrified crew the new face of buccaneer revenge. He boarded in his usual demonic attire and delivered a rousing speech that has since been oft quoted by those who quivered in its wind. Blackbeard roared loudly, “Gentlemen! Today is the day we avenge our Brethren for the suffering of all those mates so recently hanged. We defy the nobles for whom we once fought, since they have now decided that our services are no longer required! We built and stocked their rich, industrious colonies and now they want to reward us with the noose. So—we have a choice. We can dance the jig at the end of their ropes—or die as free and bold outlaws! Which is it to be, mates?” And the freebooters grunted throatily in favor of the latter. The commodore turned to the flinching prisoners and cried, “Say hello to the devil!” Then he chortled as his rogues stripped the captives of their most worldly possessions. But alongside a good haul of silver something flashy caught Blackbeard’s eye and he stomped over to a handsome young officer sporting a square diamond ring. He grabbed the kneeling captive by the hair and stared ferociously into his clean-shaven visage. Then, apparently recognizing the man, the marauder spat between his eyes and drew his cutlass with a hiss. “Put out your arm if you would, Mr. Davies!” Teach demanded, indicating which one he meant with his weapon. The officer hesitantly pushed out his left arm until it was level with his shoulder. Without further warning Blackbeard gave a mighty swing and chopped the limb through the wrist, watching smugly as the hand rolled clear of the body. He strode over to the severed lump, picked up the grisly claw, rubbed the diamond ring on his jacket, and placed the trophy in his pocket. Then he dragged the wildly struggling Davies up the bulwarks and pushed the splaying officer over the side.
The other prisoners had no idea why this individual had been singled out but made sure to keep their horror mute so as not to be next in line. Now, as they didn’t resist none, the commodore marooned the rest of the crew on a remote but visible island (leaving the two women aboard entirely unmolested because they chanced to be proper white ladies). The pirates then set fire to the vessel and drank raucously as they toasted goodbye to the sinking carcass. The crew of the merchantman seemed grateful to escape with only one casualty, knowing their cargo was fully insured against such calamity, and no doubt anxious to return to land with embellished tales of their clash with Satan. Indeed, soon as word of the Great Allen’s fate reached port the Royal Navy dispatched its finest man-o’-war to seek out the demon and his spawn.
Now, as it turned out, Blackbeard had recognized the murdered officer only by his distinctive diamond ring. It once belonged to a young woman in Charles Towne by the name of Lydia Rowling, a beauty who’d had the audacity to rebuff the pirate’s lusty attentions. Of the three things that made my husband furious—disobedience—betrayal—and rejection—being spurned by a love interest apparently rated highest of high. So the buccaneer, pretending to respect her preference for a younger beau, graciously retired from pursuit leaving the sea clear for Davies. Truth be told he’d probably not given the couple no more thought until he spotted the officer wearing her ring and realized this new advantage. Later that night he wrapped the jeweled hand in a red velvet cloth and placed it inside a wooden chest. He planned to send it back to Charles Towne so Mistress Rowling would learn the fate of her beloved and the hefty price of having spurned Edward Teach. Some say that when she received the put
rid gift the lovely woman grieved so hard she died of a broken heart. But whether that’s true or not I can’t rightly say.
Soon after that we suffered a sharp calamity. Our three vessels decided to split up in the Bay of Honduras and meet on the largest Cayman Island northwest of Jamaica, on the cocky assumption three crafts could plunder three times more loot. During the separation Lieutenant Richards tried for a slippery prize called the Protestant Caesar—a well-armed vessel commanded by Captain Wyer on its way to Belize to collect logwood, and currently stuffed with sugar and other supplies. Richards fired a warning across the bow, raised a painted version of the commodore’s flag, and demanded Wyer’s immediate surrender, threatening no quarter if the crew resisted. But the captain chose to retaliate and some well-aimed grapeshot smashed through the pirate’s mainmast effectively disabling the craft. The Protestant Caesar swiftly made for port while the broken sloop was forced to bob toward Jamaica under oar. Fortunately though, the Queen Anne’s Revenge had gone after a prize farther south, and having quickly taken a good supply of tanned leather, we were making our way toward Jamaica when we spotted the damaged Adventure. After Richards and crew climbed aboard the flagship the men voted to sink the broken boat and try for something swifter, because Blackbeard was determined to turn back after the Protestant Caesar so that Wyer couldn’t never boast that he’d defeated one of our fleet. Now, give him his due, the commodore was such a skilled navigator he was able to place us on the exact trade route from Belize, and such was his focus he allowed several potential prizes to pass unchallenged until we spotted a likely replacement for the lost sloop. The men selected a large schooner that was duly renamed the new Adventure and its former captain—David Herriot—was pressed into joining the Brethren. Lieutenant Richards took command of the schooner, then quickly outfitted her with spare cannons transferred from the Queen Anne’s Revenge. When all was ready, the replenished convoy waited on the unsuspecting Captain Wyer. Eventually, of course, the Protestant Caesar did make an appearance. But this time—when she spotted two pirate vessels and realized they were commanded by the infamous Blackbeard—her crew abandoned ship in the longboats and gave up their cargo without a fight. Teach let the mariners escape while his men ransacked for valuables and supplies, before the logwood on board was set ablaze and could be seen still smoking off our stern the following dawn.
Then somewhere out in the middle of dark water our flotilla was hailed by a passing buccaneer brig commanded by Captain Robert Deal. He’d once sailed with Charles Vane (but was now cruising on his own account) and as soon as he’d identified himself came aboard to drink with his old mates. Gossip was traded as news and we were amazed to learn that King George had decreed a royal pardon for all pirates who agreed to give up the sweet trade. Henry Jennings had apparently already surrendered to Governor Bennett in Bermuda, and rumor had it that Ben Hornigold was planning to sail to Jamaica for his reprieve. There was much excited chatter examining the advantage of such clemency—the general agreement being that as it wiped out all former crimes—and as the rogues were allowed to keep their ill-gotten blunt—one might as well go along with the charade as they could always return to the sea if honesty didn’t work out. Blackbeard sat with a rueful grin on his face before announcing that next time he was in Carolina he’d think to ask Governor Eden for the papers, but when I asked if he was planning retirement he laughed so loud the echo made my ears throb.
In the meantime we continued past Jamaica to rendezvous with the Revenge on Grand Cayman Island before our convoy set sail for Providence. But then, one misty day before we arrived there, the authorities finally found us—and the instant we ran into their warship Scarborough we wily hunters transformed into cornered prey. This grim man-o’-war had thirty guns, a dedicated crew, and obviously felt able to tackle three drunken pirate ships so they sleekly moved into position and announced their intent to take us. Now their captain apparently expected we’d either try to flee or strike colors, but Blackbeard had no intention of running or surrendering so he ordered the guns to be loaded and weapons dispersed. He then maneuvered the Queen Anne’s Revenge broadside, between the man-o’-war and his smaller vessels. “Show them our flag, Mr. Howard, if you please.” The order to fire preceded the burst of cannon that flashed from the warship. I hunkered behind the boats on the quarterdeck, certain we’d never see Nassau again, and waited for my medicinal services to be called upon. Teach raised his horn and introduced himself as Satan before adding, “Pray well sinners! For the hour of your death is at hand. . . .” And the battle began.
This particular engagement was unlike any other I’d ever ever witnessed. We’d no intent to board so the aim was to shoot their ship to splinters whilst trying to avoid the same fate. Our volley was answered in kind, and before we knew it we were engaged in a running duel that seemed to go on and on and on. I didn’t get no time to think when the wounded began staggering through the smarting smoke to the stern, and I rushed to pluck splinters and start binding wounds. Every time our craft took a hit I was bounced off my legs and as the deck grew bloody I shouted for someone to throw down sand so we’d not keep losing footing. And just when I thought we were done for, one of our missiles ripped through their bulkhead and tore a hole the size of a coconut. A cheer burst forth, and encouraged by this success, Philip Morton was able to gauge a kill-shot that leveled their mizzenmast on to the deck. The warship lurched and flailed, bounced wildly like a cork on running water, then before we could even reload our guns the craft had retreated into the mist and out of range.
“Will we pursue, Commodore?” the quartermaster panted.
“Nay, Mr. Howard. I reckon they’ll not be plaguing us further.”
Blackbeard knew that the disgrace of having to limp back defeated would be greater than any punishment he or his men could inflict. And I’ll bet you ain’t never heard this tale before because the Royal Navy don’t like to boast of its losses. But I tell you—whatever the official version—that battle put a price on Blackbeard’s head that many would thirst to win.
After that routing we decided it wiser to avoid Providence so we sailed through the Narrows past Cuba and never saw another sail for days. My surly husband began to grow bored. One drunken night he challenged his officers to a dare, shouting, “Come, let us make a hell of our own, and try how long we can bear it!” He ordered several pots to be filled with brimstone and placed at various points belowdecks. Then he and some other foolhardy men crawled into the hold, closed all hatches, set fire to the combustibles, and waited to see who could endure the stench longest. One by one the officers scrambled choking from the depth, gasping for air in a cloud of sulfurous fumes. Blackbeard was the last to leave and, proud that he was the best soul fitted for Hades, roared, “Damn you, you yellow-bellied sapsuckers! I’m a better man than all you milksops put together!” One of the spectators quipped, “Looks like you’ve just come from the gallows!”—prompting the commodore to push back his sweaty locks, growl lowly, and suggest next time they try hanging themselves to see who could wear a noose the longest. . . . I found the whole episode childish but kept such thoughts strapped tight in my head. Outwardly, I congratulated my husband and further plumped his vanity.
One afternoon when Teach was busy mapping charts, Pell took me down belowdecks to a rank space where the buckets and brushes were stowed. He bent me over a pile of discarded sailcloth and quickly set to business, but before he’d finished a coarse rasp behind us announced that Garrat Gibbens had appeared, searching for pitch. “By the heavens . . .” he mused, “if it isn’t the lovely Mrs. Teach rutting like a she-cat.”
Pell came to conclusion and hurriedly fastened his breeches. He wiped his nose on a grimy sleeve and muttered, “Nice bit of rough, Gibby. And all yours—if you choose.” Something unsaid also passed between the two boatswains and a silent tacit agreement slipped into place.
“As you were, darling. . . .” Gibbens commanded. And he took up the space just vacated by Pell. I cringed when I felt his call
oused hands grip my hips and did my best to end him swiftly. He took great delight in yanking my long hair back until his mouth was able to suck on my neck, and as soon as we’d finished in one position he was charged up to go again. I began to worry that Blackbeard would miss me. And even more concerned what would happen if he found me.
When eventually I was allowed to leave I hurried to the main cabin. My husband was staring out the window but his countenance changed the moment I entered the room. Now I swear to God, that man could smell the sex on me. His nose quivered like a hunting dog’s snout and his eyes narrowed to arrow slits. “Curse it! Where have you been?” he demanded to know. I blushed and stammered something feminine. He strode over to where I stood shivering and grasped my throat. The instant he saw the huge red marks something set in his eerie eyes—something cold as marble—something sharp as glass. “Whose doing is this, blast you!”
“The b . . . b . . . boatswain . . .” I stuttered between sobs.
“Pell or Gibbens?”
I turned my head to avoid the spittle flying from Teach’s mouth and then nodded shamefully.
“God’s death! Both of them?” he snorted. When I nodded again he pushed me onto the bed and made me confirm the culprits. After I’d finished confessing I waited with barely a breath for the strike on my sinful flesh. But he never raised a hand. Instead, he picked up his cutlass and blustered out of the cabin in search of his impudent mates.
Gibbens was busy on deck when Blackbeard’s tetchy blade surprised the nape of his neck, drawing his instant attention. The boatswain was caught off-guard and fell back onto the planking in mock surrender. He knew why his commodore was there and joked, “By my blood, she’s a lusty wench you’ve got there and no mistaking!” And perhaps believing that Blackbeard meant to share me soon enough he hoped his conspiratorial grin and stellar past service would alleviate any retribution for the taking of early liberties.
Fire on Dark Water Page 23
