Fire on Dark Water

by Wendy Perriman

  But the dark countenance the boatswain stared into gave no slack. “Lower your breeches, you base-souled bastard!” Teach commanded, while the rest of the deckhands crawled close to savor the entertainment. Gibbens instinctively reached for his dagger, then realizing his lack of advantage thought better of confrontation and carefully undid his codpiece, seeming more and more concerned at the commodore’s temper. “And raise the shirt if you please. . . .” The boatswain’s mouth gritted in a bold grimace (as if this were just another madman’s test), exposing himself to the peck of eyes and ridicule. Blackbeard bent close to examine the nakedness, pushed the pirate’s parts around with the hilt of his weapon and, seemingly satisfied with what he’d discovered there, he nodded that Gibbens could now dress. The sailor rolled on his knees to protect his vulnerability and decided it best to laugh off the undeclared joke. “Where’s Pell?” Blackbeard roared. And the voices echoing down in the hull brought the other boatswain up from the galley.

  “What’s all the trouble, mateys?” Pell asked. He stopped short the moment he spotted Teach’s drawn sword. “So ’tis your summons, Comm’dore?” he realized. Pell shot a panicked glance at Gibbens hoping for some clue to survival, but his partner merely winked, clucked his tongue, and grinned from one yellow fang across to the other brown stump. Gibbens was free and clear now. He could relax and enjoy the spectacle.

  Blackbeard placed the tip of his cutlass on Pell’s barely healed thigh and roared, “Strip to the knees, and don’t make me have to cut you or I’ll cleave your balls asunder!” The frightened man did as bid, his fingers fumbling to undo the buttons fast enough to save his future. But before he could lift his attention to further instruction the commodore had slit the front of the shirt, tearing it from the boatswain’s pale frame. Teach walked slowly round the peeled man, taking full account of whatever it was he was looking for. “Jump to and get from my sight you miserable swine!” he bellowed. And he smacked the bare rump with the flat of his blade for emphasis. Next thing I knew my husband had thumped back down to the cabin. He slammed the door and demanded, “How many others have there been, you loose-legged slattern?”

  I rubbed the tearstains on my cheeks and whispered, “None since we’ve been wed, sir . . .”

  “Is that the truth of it?” He began to undress in a fury. “Then how, in the name of the devil, explain you this. . . ?” I stared in dismay at the small brown sores covering my husband’s body. I’d seen these before on the Argyll and recognized the dreaded Great Pox.

  All I could think to do was display my own body, which was clear of any blemishes—and then use the weight of my apothecary experience to push the blame to elsewhere. So I raised my shift to show a clear expanse of skin and murmured, “It . . . looks like . . . like Cupid’s Disease. . . .” I gulped and continued, “Probably from those black women.” I knew the sailors called this the French disease while in France they blamed the Italians. But the Puritans thought that it came from Africa and was spread by careless slavers. “I’ve no rash. . . . See?” I added, and dropped my clothing back in place.

  “Can you treat it?” he asked quietly.

  I nodded and spoke truthfully. “Sometimes it’s cured and is no further bother . . .” but I added, “and sometimes it goes to the brain.” I didn’t know what else to say. A look of terror gilded the commodore’s black eyes as he faced the depths of his own mortality. He swallowed hard, poured a good tankard of rum, then stood staring out of the windowpane into lone darkness.

  Pell grabbed me by the arm the first time he caught me on deck and asked why Blackbeard was so incensed at our liaisons. I didn’t betray his condition, but as I was frightened what my husband might do next I pleaded with the boatswain to keep his faith and protect me. He whispered urgently into my ear, “We’ve already set a course for Maine. . . .” I didn’t have no idea what that meant so Pell briefly informed me that the Isle of Shoals was a popular dumping ground for the commodore’s former wives. Apparently Teach would find some pretext to land on White Island and take the unwanted wife ashore in the skiff. Then he’d suggest she went exploring, and once she was out of sight he’d row back to ship and set sail without her, or invite the crew to form a disorderly queue for their share of her skin. I stared in utter dismay.

  “What must I do?” I cried. I didn’t want to be marooned.

  “I believe you must plan on escape. . . .” I opened my mouth to ask something more but the boatswain squeezed my elbow and said, “Whatever you decide, share only with yourself. Trust no one, to be sure.” And he staggered off across the deck to organize the sails. Next day Gibbens had been rowed across to the Adventure and Pell was back on the Revenge. I ain’t sure that the Brethren voted on these changes but no salt dared challenge the commodore’s orders when he slumped in such a rank temper.

  Now, a little later, when other members of the superstitious crew also fell foul of the Pox, it was rumored to be a curse—the revenge of the slaughtered African women. So many officers succumbed to varying degrees of headache, malaise, and fever that Captain Bonnet assumed temporary command of the Queen Anne’s Revenge while Blackbeard lay in a cantankerous stupor. The commodore suggested they sail for Carolina, and as my supply of mercury ran low the crew voted in favor of the apothecaries of Bath Towne. We planned to dock at Ocracoke (one of the deserted islands off the coast) where we could hide in safety, row over for medical assistance, and share out the plunder we hoped Governor Eden would transform into coin. But as more than thirty sailors had now turned poorly I ran dizzy trying to attend them all. Eventually I had the patients placed on our flagship deck—where any hands not on watch took turns giving water and cleaning up mess—while I went from cock to cock administering the brutal syringe. It was odd, though, that some were stricken with the reddish-pink rash while others developed the small brown sores, and no sooner was one batch of tars feeling better than another fresh outbreak burst forth. So I was really, really glad when we finally sighted the Outer Banks.

  Blackbeard’s strength returned by the time we made land. We hauled up in a sheltered creek where the ships could rest hidden from casual view. Will Howard transferred the saleable merchandise onto the Adventure, then Lieutenant Richards took the commodore, Caesar, and three other men to trade with Governor Eden, who was whispered to have a secret passage from shore to cellar to aid his nefarious smuggling activities—and who always paid promptly in gold. My husband promised to return with fresh supplies of medicine, flesh, and rum—and no one doubted his intent as he’d left behind his flagship.

  The next day Teach reappeared laden down with supplies and wafting a paper he claimed was our pardon. He said Governor Eden had exonerated our entire fleet if we agreed to quietly disperse and go about honest business—so would the rogues agree to collect their pay and subtly melt into the Carolina countryside? Those patients still suffering looked forward to the comforts of land and were first to agree, and the two musicians were also eager to depart, confident that a fiddler and accordionist would always find gainful employment. But most of the old gang seemed reluctant to abandon their only homes and the newcomers appeared disoriented. We sat round a fire waiting for the quartermaster to start divvying up the booty when one of the fledgling salts was pushed forward of his group. He took off his cap and stood cautiously in front of the gathering before spluttering, “Begging your pardon, Comm’dore. . . . What’re we reckoning to do in Bath Towne? I’m from London. . . .”

  “Aye, I’m Glasgow!”

  “Liverpool—we be. . . .”

  The crowd chipped in their own information.

  Teach stood up to acknowledge their query and was thoughtful for a few moments before responding, “Sweet merciful heaven—you’re all free men! And verily rich to boot. I’ll warrant there’s many a pretty wench waiting ashore to wed with you.” He stalked round the inside of the circle pointing at various tars as he continued explaining, “You, sir. Might you now have a mind to set up in business? Purchase a farm? Own a tavern?” Some of th
e more ambitious faces nodded with approval. “Or if the sea’s in your veins—sign up legal?” Every eye was focused on his lips. “Well, forsooth, this is your chance!” He watched the quartermaster attributing the spoils into various hats. “Take your blunt and put it to good use. . . .” Then he paused before adding, “And for my part I’ll keep my faith with the Brethren and promise you this. . . .” The company was stunningly silent as all ears prickled for the coming vow. “Any mate not content as a lubber may return to this very spot at midnight Good Friday. Watch for the signal fire.” This seemed to settle the matter and the young spokesman nodded gratefully before disappearing into the crowd. Will Howard completed the payments, and boat by boat the newly retired pirates sailed off to their brighter tomorrows. But as the gathering thinned I noted none of the commodore’s officers had taken the opportunity to leave. Major Bonnet sat with Ignatius Pell and Israel Hands; David Herriot was now fast friends with Lieutenant Richards and Garrat Gibbens; and Caesar, Will Howard, and Philip Morton remained with Blackbeard, half a dozen faithful old sea dogs, and me. Some grand plan had been agreed that I didn’t know about, for it seemed these chosen few were staying on Ocracoke to guard the ships. My husband took me roughly by the hand to our cabin on the Queen Anne’s Revenge and deposited a collection of useless medicines on the table, informing me that mercury was in short supply around Bath Towne. I watched with bleary eyes as he collected his personal belongings and asked him if I should pack too. He shook his head, told me he’d heard of a surgeon who could cure the Pox, pushed the navigation charts safe under his bunk, and then left me to my fate. Of course I immediately realized my usefulness had ended—that I’d never see him again.

  Now, if you’ve ever played Brag you might understand how I was feeling at this uncomfortable point. I’d to show the cards dealt from a previous hand without no shuffling—and fate had just upped the ante without my consent. My days were now numbered. But I remembered the cardinal rule—that you cannot see the blind man—so decided to play my hand blind. Now, my only options were to continue betting or to fold (and I’d played enough skillful games to know that you don’t win big if you threw in or fail to bluff). Blackbeard held the better hand—but if I didn’t fold out of turn—and never showed my cards to anybody—seeing my suits would cost him twice as much as any of the previous players. So I determined not to throw in my luck. . . . I’d play by my life and take the whole pot.

  It was only much later I heard about my husband’s antics in Bath Towne. He’d apparently decided to settle down and become a proper gentleman again, so began establishing himself with the locals and building the house on Plum Point. Seems he also started wooing Mary Ormond—a teenage debutant with education, breeding, and connections who would soon unsuspectingly agree to become his fourteenth wife. I’m sure she thought she’d be able to civilize her buccaneer prince, but I’m told that instead she actually met the fate that was destined for me. Of course, this is all hearsay and speculation. I only really knew what was happening on my island.

  This early part of the year was unseasonably warm with just enough sunlight to camp on the beach, in preference to the hammocks on ship. But that first night I was so afraid for my safety (being alone and unprotected with all those sailors), I ensconced myself in the main cabin aboard the Queen Anne’s Revenge and sealed the door tight with a chair wedged under the handle. I’d been given my share of the plunder along with everyone else—but only because they knew I’d never get to spend it. Now in the safety of the cabin I opened the sailcloth to see what I’d acquired . . . a cluster of gold and silver coins to add to the silver chalice still buried in my medicine chest. Quite a good haul, but not nearly enough for severance. I glanced out the cabin window to the men already starting to gamble by the fire and noted Slouchy, who’d appeared from nowhere, was busy preparing a pot of salmagundi. He’d sense enough to bury his riches, whereas the others who were addicted to dice—too lazy or overconfident—had opted to keep purses and hats at hand, and that would soon be their undoing. I drew a calming breath to clear my fuddle and then numbly forced my limbs into action.

  First off I took the good whiskey Blackbeard had brought with the supplies, carefully removed the stopper, plucked the laudanum bottle from my chest and poured in enough to render a brown bear senseless. I shook the mixture vigorously, then waited for the cloudiness to fade. Next, I pulled the navigation sack from under the bunk and tipped the contents onto the floor—I needed a makeshift ditty bag to carry my possessions and this would suffice—but the rolled-up charts caught my attention so I carefully unwrapped the most recent to see if I could decipher where we were stationed and which direction I should run. I found the map to be a plundered French chart but recognized the words Caroline and Virginie—and when careful scrutiny showed Charles Towne too close for comfort I determined to head North for Virginia. I spotted Okeken (which I took to be Ocracoke) on a long, thin spit of land running almost the entire length of the colony and tried to memorize the dog-leg path I’d be taking. I wouldn’t be needing no compass, though—there was only one way to go and that was forward. Now, I knew that sandbars shifted and split and didn’t expect to get all the way on land without getting wet so I scrabbled about for useful items—rope, a sailor’s knife, candles and tinderbox, hardtack, apples, and two buoyant jugs of water. I got my battle clothes organized (including my boots and cape) but decided I couldn’t take the silver chalice or my chest so I stuffed the last of the figs into the sack. When all was ready I tidied myself up, picked up the whiskey, and sauntered out to the men at the fire.

  As I approached I noticed they were engrossed in a game of dice but strangely enough there was no money in the pot. Instead, Slouchy was paying out faceup cards that already ranged from one to seven. The excitement hushed as I grew close and someone nudged Philip Morton (who happened to be holding the ace). The leer in their eyes told me what was going on—they were betting on who was to have me in which order. I feigned ignorance and said gaily, “Gentlemen! A gift from Governor Eden to welcome us to Carolina . . .” and before anyone raised suspicion I began pouring whiskey into their mugs. They downed the draft with annoying slowness but I kept refilling as each became empty, trying to dish out equal shares.

  “Aren’t you joining us?” Slouchy asked.

  I smiled sweetly and said, “Aye. I’ll go get my bowl and mug. . . .” Then I intentionally rolled my hips for their pleasure as I sashayed back to my cabin. I watched covertly through the window as the betting continued in my absence and everyone had their turn assured. But the opium didn’t seem to be working any and I broke out in a panic. The only other temptation was a half-empty barrel of rum so I hurriedly ground up some dried valerian root and dropped it into the mixture to steep. Then, when I couldn’t delay any longer without suspicion, I collected my mess kit and the rum and made my way back to the fire.

  By now the men were busy eating. I casually put the rum on the ground, walked over to the cauldron, and scooped a ladle of pottage, and was pleased to see William Howard already helping himself from the barrel. Everyone was drinking heavily to celebrate the end of the cruise and I ate as slowly as possible, hoping on hope that the drugs would work before I’d to start giving out favors. Major Bonnet’s eyes began to droop and I could see him trying to pinch his brows to stay alert. But Philip Morton was chipper as ever and I knew it wouldn’t be long before they let me in on the dastardly plan.

  Lieutenant Richards, I saw, had the deuce and when he couldn’t wait no longer to get things rolling he shouted, “Morton—I’ll be taking your turn if you don’t shift your boozy arse!”

  The gunner looked momentarily befuddled, then he wobbled to his feet and without further ceremony grabbed me by the arm and hissed, “Come away with me, wench.”

  I pretended I didn’t know what was going on and allowed the jack-tar to manhandle me some distance off to a patch of live oak trees. There was a sandy spot quite hidden from the others where he laid me down and immediately fell on top.
He slobbered round my ear, muttering lusty oaths into my neck, all the while grinding his hips against mine. I played along with his enthusiasm and began undoing his codpiece. At first he seemed deliriously excited but as I fumbled into the necessary position his wood went suddenly limp and the rest of his body followed with a silent thump. The gunner lay unconscious on top of me and I panted to push myself free. I checked his deep-breathing chest and knew he’d definitely be out until morning. Good. I glanced around to make sure no one else was looking on, stealthily searched his pockets for the purse, and stuffed it deep in my cleavage. One down . . .

  Now, I’d half expected the rest of the crew to follow us and watch—and it wasn’t until I crept back to the fire I realized why they hadn’t. Every single light was out. It seemed like my mickey had finally worked! But just to make sure this wasn’t some trick, I clumsily tripped over Slouchy to see if he’d respond to my accidental kick. Nothing. I whisked off the major’s hat with my skirt and got no reaction. And David Herriot didn’t cease snoring even when I sifted sand in his wavering mouth. So one by one I frisked the dormant monsters and quietly stole their loot. I left Gibbens until the last though—and was sorely tempted to forfeit his gold because even in slumber he terrified. But then my greed got the better so I crept forward to where the buccaneer lay sprawled across a log and cautiously rooted around for his pouch. As I tugged against the pocket his eyes flicked open in a manic stare and his scabby hand reached up to counteract mine. But the rage in his eyes seemed to fizz to blankness, the squeezing grip fell useless, and with a mighty snort he rolled facedown into his blackest nightmare. I gave a hurried glance at the dying sun and realized I’d only about an hour of light left and needed to put as much distance as possible between us so ran quickly to the ship, slipped into my practical clothes, stuffed the coins into the waistband of my breeches, and left with the ditty bag over my shoulder and an unlit lantern in my hand. And I knew from the map I’d have to skirt round the marshes ahead so I set off by the grass-flecked shoreline alongside the patchy sunset.