The tide was ebbing, allowing me to squelch through the sucking mud, and I certainly preferred wading in wet boots to the potential venom of black swamp snakes coiled waiting farther inland. The moon rose enough to dapple the foam a lighter gray as I plodded my way up the edge of the Sound, and an hour or so later the boggy marsh set to firmer sand. By then I wished I were in Nassau (where my boots would have already started to dry) but I trekked on and on and on into darkness well aware that I’d passed the point of no return. Sometime before the witching hour I came to a bay that reflected the glistening moon in all her glory. The ripples resembled a writhing pond of mercury and everything was tranquil except for the slush of the sweeping sea. But I couldn’t waste no time negotiating this obstacle so I carefully turned inland and assumed I was now heading east. Soon I came to an eerie woods full of shadow and untold rustling noises, but the thought of the terror I’d face if the groggy men caught up with me was more than enough motivation to screw up my fears and swallow them whole. So I stopped for a gulp of water, lit my lantern, and then picked my way through the forest of black, grasping limbs. I walked and walked until I could feel the blisters pop. Then I walked some more. Now, I didn’t know if they’d come after me by land or water—but reckoning to be safer on the far banks where the open sea would give better warning I bumbled along in a jagged line—never too far from someplace I could hide. The sun rose pink then purple then gold, etching the sky in a moody slate of gray as the clouds rolled in to dim the horizon. This side of the island was a ribbon of beach, shells, and dunes, but wherever possible I scurried along under shadow of the trees. When I really couldn’t stumble another step, and it was warm enough to believe the hunters were probably abroad, I began to look for a good place to rest away from sudden danger.
A flash of something in the trees sent shivers across my neck. And even though common sense told me it couldn’t be one of the crewmen I instinctively dropped to the sand behind a hillock. As I peered into the gloom the light changed to shadow and was followed by a series of thuds that shifted like restless ghosts. Something puffed and whined—something surprising and wonderfully familiar—a mustang snuffling for fresh, sweet shoots. The silver flank was nudged away by a chestnut snout and I realized the horse was not alone. Had some scary hostile natives discovered me first? I lay panting with my chin flat on the dune, barely daring to lift an eye in case a painted face stared back. Then I heard a boatswain’s whistle cut through the distance, a human shout from somewhere in the swamp, and a second whistle echo on the faroff shore. The pirates had apparently launched a sloop each side of the island and another band on foot—they were systematically hunting me down and I knew I’d have to move fast. So I opted for the lesser danger—I’d take my chances with the red skins.
Now, I ain’t kidding when I tell you my heart was bumping fit to injure my chest as I moved stealthily toward the unknown shade. I couldn’t see anyone else around but I’d heard that the Indians were cunning and brave so was alert for any type of movement above and below. Nothing. I exhaled my gratitude and moved toward the trees. The herd consisted of several wild ponies that scattered at my approach—but the dominant mare held her ground a little way off and stared me down with her ancient gaze. I drew a biscuit from my pack and approached her with the crumbs on a flat, extended palm, for she seemed less skittish than the younger fillies and perhaps was used to human contact. I noted she was a small, powerful gray with an unkempt black mane and tail covered in sandy dust. I estimated she’d be around ten years old but was fatter than I’d have expected from a diet of marsh grass. Someone who’d adopted her had apparently been feeding her corn (which immediately explained her easygoing temperament once she saw I wasn’t no threat). I held her stare, silently willing her to accept my gift, and was pleased that she nibbled without the slightest nip or bite. I rubbed her forehead and removed a burr from her forelock, all the while whispering seductively into her ear. She stood calm as I petted her muzzle and moved her dappled neck as I scratched the itchy spots. But whether she’d let me ride her remained to be seen. Another whistle in the distance reminded me of my urgency so I stood on a broken tree stump, grasped a firm hold of her mane, and with my last push of strength managed to mount her back. She was the smallest mare I’d ever ridden so I decided to call her Betty—the gypsy word for little. She gave one quick shrug to see if I’d shift but I gripped my thighs and steered her toward the beach. I couldn’t see any mast yet so decided it’d be safe to canter along the beach, and when the rest of the herd came out from the bracken to join us I prayed we’d be well concealed by the clouds of their hoof-spun dust. I didn’t know whether a dozen galloping horses would seem suspicious or not—but there was no way I could walk anymore—and if I stayed on this spit of land I’d surely get nabbed.
Betty was a godsend, I have to say. She kept up pace a good hour or so, then dropped to a steady trot. At one point she turned inland and refused to stay on track so I’d no option except to give her head and trust she wasn’t taking me to no Indian village. But she stepped nimbly through the brush and deposited me at a natural spring where me and the herd drank gratefully. I knew this sandbar must end at some point—where the restless sea had breached and reclaimed new passage—yet how accurate Blackbeard’s map was I’d no real idea. I did note, though, that the wind blew mercifully in my favor. The sloops would have to tack to catch up . . . and I hoped upon hope that’d give me enough advantage. We trotted and cantered into late afternoon until the land dog-legged sharp north. I was initially tempted to hide in the lush, cool forest because I ached from ear to toe and had several times almost dropped into slumber, but some primitive strength urged me onward and common sense told me to follow its lead. So we took a quick break in the shade instead and walked the last long miles into evening. I reckoned the men would strike camp at sunset because they couldn’t see nothing in the dark, and when the ponies grew fractious and tired I knew it was time to rest. Betty selected a small hidden clearing in a patch of scraggly trees where a narrow stream kept the grasses crisp. I shared the last of my apples and hardtack with my new companion while the rest of the ponies foraged their own meal. I waited until the horses settled and gently slipped a rope around Betty’s neck, wrapping the other end round my own wrist so she’d still be close in the morning. Strangely enough she allowed this insult and seemed equally tolerant when I rested against her flank and fell into fitful repose. As soon as dawn broke we set off again and by noon stood staring at the edge of the world where the sea crashed through the gaping inlet.
I sat on Betty’s back and stared in dismay. This was no tiny gap like on Teach’s map—this was a huge gaping river I couldn’t see across, with a crop of rocks and a suck of raging water. What should I do? I tried edging the pony down to the sea in the hope she’d swim me across. But she sniffed the danger, threw back her neck, and whined a definitive snort, pulling back from the tip and refusing to budge. Eventually I slid from her back and tried cajoling her down. All attempts were fruitless and I realized I must let her go. So I gave her a thankful pat, smacked her rump, and watched sadly as she led her herd back toward home. On the far horizon I saw hostile sail slowly gaining in size, and the billow of a schooner out at sea that might be headed this way. There was nothing for me to do now except plunge into the sullen swell—but to give me additional buoyancy I drank down the contents of my two water jugs, tightly replaced the stoppers, lashed a container to each arm, and hoped they’d keep me afloat when I grew too tired to swim. I stuffed my boots in the ditty bag, which I then tied on my back, threw my cloak in the water to look like I’d drowned and, with my stomach sat inside my throat, waded to where the rocks fell away to black water.
I pushed off and let the current sweep me up. And as I bobbed up from the first briny dunk I realized I’d made my choice now, and that was that.
13
GRIPPED BY FINGERS TEN
1718
The moment I soared to the surface I recognized my terrible mistake.
Now, I ain’t never known no water cold as that brink—it burned like a liquid ice and quite literally squeezed the gasp from my chest. My skin tingled with fire-sharp prickles and I could feel my heart trying to warm the half-frozen sludge, punching and wrestling and throbbing right up to my temples. I stared through salty eyes, trying to determine which way to swim, and set out in the opposite direction of the rocks. I thought if I thrashed my legs about I’d soon warm up—but this was no balmy Carribee—this was the raging Atlantic gnawing the edge of an untamed world. And instead of relaxing into a useful rhythm, my muscles drew tense and shivery. The closing sound of whistles and yells urged me on and I was glad I’d tied the jugs to my arms because they helped keep my head up when fatigue would have bid a sickly surrender. I kicked and spluttered and shuddered and spat, not really sure where headed now or why. But some push propelled me forward so I moved to its silent instruction like a sleepwalker. I’d no idea how long I’d been immersed but found myself bobbing inside the waves as my breathing gradually slowed to putters. The drumming in my skull grew fainter and dimmer and I swear I could see palm fronds peeking out of the pitching waves. I thought it’d be nice to taste coconut again . . . and wondered if I’d enough gold hidden in my breeches to buy one? The right jug loosed itself and wobbled from sight so I tussled to free the left jug and grasp it between both hands. Everything slid into grayness. My mind set chill as my body. I vaguely recall the swell of a boat, the spray of the oars, and a curse of amazement when ten steely fingers suddenly caught hold of my hair and hauled me up toward terrible blankness. As sense slipped away, my last hope was that they kill me quickly before my vicious husband returned.
My worst worry was that a thief like me would be keelhauled. I ain’t never seen it done to any poor soul but I knew it was the punishment kept for the worst of all sinners. The pirates would strip me naked and tie me to the main yard with weights on my feet. They’d stuff an oil-soaked rag in my mouth, then drag me by rope under the hull of the boat from one slimy end to the other. The crusty barnacles would flay my flesh like razors. Then they’d laugh and do it again. Then again. Of course I’d likely not survive long—from drowning or shark bite or blood loss or fright or infection—and if I did I’d be horribly scarred, both outside and in. But even that would be preferable to what Blackbeard might drum up for trying to slip his noose. I shuddered, as much in panic as with cold.
Then my thoughts turned upward toward the fluttery light. I’d already endured so much—come so far—I couldn’t believe it would end like this. I’d not been cast much luck before but I’d always made the best of it, and needed, now more than ever, to keep my thoughts buoyant and focused. It was hard sifting my foggy mind, though, when the darkness seemed cozy and lulled like a siren and beckoned me into its careless abandon. No—I didn’t want to be remembered as Blackbeard’s gypsy apothecary, or be forgotten as one of his nameless wives. I’d always been sharp at improvising, adapting to wind and change. So I wrestled to keep the air sucking in and out of bubbling nostrils and bit my juddering lips to still them from blabbing in terror.
Next thing I knew was the oily deck of a lurching craft. Something was weighing me down. At first I thought I’d been chained to the hold but the coarse rub of cloth on my chin suggested otherwise. I opened one tentative eye and scanned for foe. I couldn’t see nothing except the slick planks beneath my cheek so I cautiously turned my head as slowly as able, and that’s when I discovered I’d been wrapped in blankets and covered with tarpaulin. My arms and legs shook without restraint—and I obviously wasn’t dead yet—but my limbs felt like limp lumps of clay and couldn’t keep from quivering. I quietly pulled my knees to my chest and huddled inside myself for that last ounce of warmth. Where was I? This lilt underneath was too fierce for the Queen Anne’s Revenge, and the near thrust of oars alongside the whip of close sail made me realize I wasn’t on no familiar sloop. I thrust an ear up out of the makeshift cocoon and heard voices singing of a fine Sally Brown. The rocking took over my scanty thoughts and I pushed my head back in the blankets letting the awesome sea become mother.
I drifted in and out of comprehension unable, or unwilling, to piece together what was happening. But it turns out I was rescued from the murk at the point when my flesh had gone blue. One of the local pilots, racing to guide the incoming schooner through the inlet, had spotted my floating head and ordered his African crewmen to dredge me for life. Then they turned their agile periauger into the wind and pulled alongside the larger vessel so the pilot could board and help navigate the treacherous shoals, and I was hoisted up like a bundle of sail and dumped in the schooner’s longboat. This merchant vessel was out of Philadelphia heading for Bath Towne—but when the captain heard me muttering Blackbeard’s dreaded name he decided to settle for Norfolk instead, to protect his valuable cargo.
Now, there was this plainly dressed lady on board, the wife of a Quaker pastor who turned out to be a minister herself, and she gently roused me from stupor. I never did know her name—she said to address her as Friend—but she nursed me until I could feed myself and she didn’t ask no awkward questions. Fact is, I’d already decided to keep my gob shut tight. And the crew thought I’d been through enough to render me stupid so they treated me like the hapless village idiot. But by the time we reached Norfolk I’d the worse cough you’d ever, ever heard and although I could now stand for very short spells my body felt rampant with fever. The ministers took me to a house and arranged a bed, but were thoroughly dismayed when I insisted on sleeping in my old breeches.... I may well have lost something of my mind at that point yet was determined not to lose my loot as well. A few days later they left me in the care of this fellow Friend as they set out by wagon for Bath Towne.
The Virginia Quakers were an odd bunch—religious and deeply compassionate. They wore stark, drab clothes and spoke a funny way I ain’t never heard done by others. After the Puritans had run their forefathers from Massachusetts they’d apparently scattered and moved farther south seeking sanctuary, complaining that the Pilgrim Fathers wanted religious freedom themselves without offering it to anyone else. Then William Penn set up Philadelphia, his harmonious experiment in liberty and democracy, and the Friends there prospered so well they wanted to spread their success to others. Their shopkeepers did away with haggling by naming a fair common price—they invented new drinks to wean folks off alcohol—and they didn’t have no nasty bias against us gypsies. But the rest of the Virginian colonists were Anglican, and even after the Toleration Act stopped official persecutions the Children of the Light had not yet succeeded in freeing themselves of suspicion. They therefore formed a tight community that met for secret worship. I found all this out the day my sweats stopped and I could focus on my keeper, the sweet Lucretia.
Lucretia Fry was the widowed wife of a banker whose heart was big as her matronly chest. Her tired hair peeked in wayward strands from her starched, clean cap yet her gray eyes were calm and welcoming. I’d just finished gulping some delicate broth when she tenderly exclaimed, “Praise the Lord! Your fever has broke, my child.” I shuffled into a comfortable position, immediately checking that my breeches were unmolested. She laid a cool hand to my forehead and pushed the matted curls from my eyes and I relaxed enough to turn and meet her gaze. Lucretia smiled and assured me, “You are among Friends here, and safe from danger.” She’d been told I was found in the water and my ship had been wrecked by pirates. I didn’t correct her any, but let her sing on in her drawling voice as she busied herself with my comfort. She brought me a rag to wash with and then set about trying to untangle my locks, all the while talking quietly and trying to set me at ease.
When eventually she paused to ask my name I thought for a moment and stuttered, “Mary . . . Mary Shane.” I didn’t want to tell her my real identity in case some buccaneer came a-hunting, or word got back to Charles Towne. Lucretia was one of those rare really good folks but I didn’t know, yet, I could trust her.
“Can you remember what happened to your
ship?” she asked. I shook my head and stared wildly into the corner of the room. She didn’t press for answers but put her meaty arms round my neck and rocked me like a hammock. She whispered, “We need listen together for the Holy Spirit to hear what it is God wants done with you, poor child.” I didn’t have no idea what she was talking about but I let her hug me to and fro because she smelt of fresh-baked shortbread.
Over the following days I began to make myself useful around the house. Then one time when I was scraping carrots Lucretia looked me sharp in the face and asked, “Are you a Romany heretic, Mary?” I nodded my sin. But instead of the usual biting response the matron carefully took the knife from my grip and turned my chin in the cup of her other hand. She peered deeply into the depths of my skull as if searching for something precious and lulled, “Bless you, my dear. There is One—Jesus Christ—who can speak to your condition.” I dropped my lashes in shame. “He gives guidance and power to those who open their hearts to Him.”
At that point in time I could certainly use some of both so I mumbled, “How . . . ?”
She informed me that, “The mark of an authentic Christian is a changed life. Do you wish redemption, child?”
“Aye . . .” I replied. I’d sinned more than enough for one life. And from that moment on I became Lucretia’s mission.
Now I ain’t never been religious but I’ve got to say the Society of Friends lived as godly as any. Of course I didn’t think much of their clothing—but they seemed happy enough without music or rum or gambling or groping or dancing. They found entertainment in the gospels. They found pleasure in hard, honest work. Their women were treated as equals because God’s spirit rests in every soul. And they even accepted me. So I tried hard to connect with the Inner Light. I struggled to read the tiny print and recited the Psalms until they dropped from my tongue like a shanty. I waited in silence for revelation. I prayed and I watched what the others did. And then I prayed even harder.
Fire on Dark Water Page 25
