Fire on Dark Water

by Wendy Perriman

  “How many?” I inquired.

  “A good two hundred. The flagship accompanied by two smaller vessels.”

  “That’ll be the Revenge and Adventure. . . .”

  “Commanded by . . . ?”

  “Major Bonnet—if he’s recovered enough to take the Revenge back from Israel Hands—and probably Owen Richards.” Spotswood was scribbling scratchy notes as I talked.

  “They anchored off the bar at Charles Towne three nights ago,” the governor continued, “and speedily captured a ship bound for England, a tobacco barge, two pinks, and a brigantine—while the remaining eight vessels at harbor dare not leave for fear of being likewise accosted.” I nodded sympathetically. “Trade has been completely disrupted and the inhabitants are understandably terrified. They have just endured a long and desperate war with the local savages and now find themselves infested by sea-robbers.” He looked me sharply in the face and added, “The Carolinians have appealed to us for any assistance we can provide.”

  “Couldn’t the Royal Navy take them?” I ventured.

  The governor moved uncomfortably and replied, “We have sent a request for His Majesty’s assistance, but I fear it will arrive too late.”

  My mind was whirling—I didn’t know what was going on in Teach’s tertiary head. “What are his demands?” I asked.

  A puzzled look waved Spotswood’s pudgy lips as he confided, “Apparently he wants a medicine chest filled with all the laudanum and mercury the town has available.”

  Now I understood. I said in a quiet tone, “Many of the crew suffer the Great Pox. If the buccaneers intend to put to sea they’ll need a good supply. . . .” It went without saying that Blackbeard himself was infected. And all other assumptions fell likewise silent beneath the governor’s hastily donned wig.

  “What would you advise the good folks at Charles Towne?” he asked.

  “Give him the medicine. . . .”

  “He will not make further demands for gold or some-such?” I didn’t think so if he’d already taken that many wealthy prizes off the bar. “And he’ll not later plunder the town once his demands are met?” Not if he wanted the colonists to accept him as a gentleman. Spotswood considered my own responses and then indicated to leave. As the messenger led me out, the governor asked, “Have you been kept fairly at the gaol?” I shrugged and looked at the floor. “I will send you some extra comfort,” he promised. And thereafter I received a flagon of flat ale each day.

  My cunning husband did as anticipated and left the folks of Charles Towne unmolested once they’d conceded to his demands. From there the pirates sailed north up the coast, with their holds stuffed full of valuables the commodore had no intention of sharing with that many others. So having previously given each outlaw a chance to leave amicably, he now resorted to wilier tactics. Six days later we heard the Queen Anne’s Revenge had run aground and been lost. Now some said this was an act of the Lord—and others that fate had intervened—but Teach knew this coast like the curves of my body and wouldn’t never get carelessly stranded. Far as I could tell he’d switched all of the goods from the sinking ship to Hands’s sloop, took on board his favorite crew of forty, tricked Bonnet to go ashore on some fool’s errand, then marooned the rest of the men on one of the sandbanks. He straight thereafter brazenly surrendered to the governor of Carolina and obtained all legal rights to the spoils on the Queen Anne’s Revenge (claiming the ship was a lawful prize acquired from the Spaniards). The now-wealthy citizen publicly married Mary Ormond with all due pomp and ceremony, trying to ingratiate himself with the fine folk of Bath Towne, quite unaware that Spotswood was closing in.

  But the restless demon inside Edward Teach couldn’t settle and soon he was once again pillaging the easy local trade routes. Now, so long as Eden received his share he turned a deaf ear to complaint, so the desperate planters appealed to the authorities in Virginia for some much-needed assistance, and in August two men-of-wars finally arrived from England, and Spotswood was able to formally issue a warrant for Blackbeard’s arrest.

  But everything came to a head that fateful September. First off, the buccaneers held a weeklong debauch on Ocracoke to entertain other notable villains, including the brutal Charles Vane and his quartermaster, John Rackham. The fishermen listened to the raucous carousing that drifted into the sweetness of night—watched oars and sailcloth come and go ferrying women across to the bacchanal—heard boasts of gambling, drinking, and fighting alongside the clink of silver—and sweated the moment they’d be apprehended and have to surrender their catches. The townsfolk gazed in dismay at the crackling bonfires, growing increasingly worried the pirates might strike a permanent base here. Spotswood received so many pleas to dispatch the King’s Navy he set about hiring two sloops able to navigate the shallow inlets and creeks. Command would be given to brave Lieutenant Maynard, an experienced and determined officer who was well-respected by his marines, while an expedition of soldiers under Captain Ellis Brand were dispatched on horseback to trap the sea villain if he headed back to land. Meanwhile, Stede Bonnet had resumed his former piratical career and was captured during a fierce battle on the Cape Fear River by Colonel William Rhett. Spotswood immediately rode to Charles Towne to interrogate the prisoner to make sure his men had the most current information available. The trap was tensing to be sprung.

  On the seventeenth of November Blackbeard gave a blasé glance at Maynard’s sloops approaching the Adventure on the evening tide, and promptly set to drinking with the local turtle-fishermen. He must have known the navy had come for him, but was also aware they’d not risk engagement until morning. Now I’m sure you’ve all heard stories of who did what on that infamous day but this is how it was told to me by them that ought to best know. See, Maynard announced himself at first light by hoisting the royal colors, and as soon as he came within hailing distance, Teach toasted him back with a glass of liquor swearing, “I’ll give no quarter nor take any from you!” Now Maynard had to draw up real close because his sloops had no cannon, and soon as they came into range the pirates fired a broadside, seriously disabling the Jane and wounding many of her company. Maynard’s own sloop, Ranger, was slightly battered, but the cunning lieutenant ordered all his men below so the deck would seem deserted. The buccaneers fired stinkpots that splayed out belching smog, but because the crew was in the hold the fumes had little effect. Then Blackbeard led the charge to board, and when dozens of marines wielding swords and firing pistols surprised them, the commodore finally realized he’d fallen into ambush. A furious battle ensued with casualties falling like deadweights, and when eventually the two leaders met face-to-face each fired off his pistol. Teach missed the naval officer’s chest but took a hit in the shoulder from Maynard’s gun—which merely enraged the burly swashbuckler, who promptly drew his cutlass and sliced the officer’s sword in twain. Blackbeard moved in for the kill slash but before his blade could touch the lieutenant’s neck a Scottish marine crept up behind and sliced the buccaneer’s throat. The king’s men set upon the falling rogue, piercing and stabbing until the demon lay still in a puddle of gore. And they tell me Teach took five bullets—had over twenty gashes—when they viciously sawed his skull from his torso. They then threw his carcass into the bloody water (where the headless corpse swam round and round the boat before sinking into legend) and suspended his dripping head from the bowsprit as proof that the monster was dead. The nine surviving pirates were immediately arrested and set in shackles. Maynard sailed straight to Bath Towne so his wounded men could seek medical attention, then he rounded up those unfortunates of Teach’s crew who happened to be ashore at the time of battle. These villains would immediately be sent to trial in the high hopes they’d all meet the hangman. The victorious Ranger then took Blackbeard’s rotting face—now tied to the mast of his own captured vessel—back to Virginia to a riotous hero’s welcome. And I was summoned to Hampton to give my final witness. I have to confess, though, I don’t recall seeing you among the rabble, mister—and I’m surprise
d that you remember seeing me.

  The severed head bobbed from the mast of the pirate sloop like a grisly lantern. Every one was whispering, Is it him? Of course, as soon as I saw the profile I knew the truth. I nodded to Governor Spotswood, then quickly slipped off to wrestle my own dark conscience. Later, when the pardon was safe in my possession, I boarded a schooner bound for Providence. My mind kept replaying something I’d heard in the crowd—that, when asked if his wife had the whereabouts of his treasure, Blackbeard supposedly replied, “Nobody but himself and the devil knew where it was and the longest liver should take all.”

  Well, I’d managed to outwit every one of those damned demons, and had plundered my own share of the infamous booty. So that was the end of that.

  14

  CHEST ON CHEST OF SPANISH GOLD

  1718–1719

  The voyage to Nassau was all plain sailing and, as I was traveling legally for once, I’d plenty of time to stare into the night-dark depths and take stock of my new situation. I felt proud having finally tugged fate with my own pull, and wished now to be able to plot my own course. Spotswood had finally upheld his end, granting me full pardon, safe passage, and enough time to carry out the careful preparations I’d dreamed up those long hours festering in prison. I was going to renegotiate Pierre’s kind offer to set up an apothecary at his shop, wishful that I might now become a proper respectable citizen, maybe even a surgeon or doctor to the less-discerning residents of Nassau. So I told John Redwood I’d been well-paid for my Judas service—to explain the appearance of sudden gold—and he helped me acquire the necessary tools.

  First off, I invested in a large medicine pannier containing bottles of every shape and hue that boasted a fold-out shelf in the lid to secure the smaller vials. These I filled with cinchona tree bark, laudanum, mercury, oil of peppermint, extract of licorice, rosewater syrup, camphor, oil of turpentine, may apple, snakeroot, ginseng, witch hazel, olive oil, alum, chamomile, powdered rhubarb, and linseed oil. I bought a hardwood mortar and pestle, some brass hook-end balance scales and weights, and three dreaded mercury syringes. John managed to find an old naval surgeon’s kit with most of the instruments still functional so now I’d also got spatulas, knives, pincers, and tiny saws (even though I didn’t yet know how to use them). Most everything else I could find on Providence, that marvelous place I’d call home.

  Now, you’ll likely find this strange coming from a gypsy, but I never put no faith in prophecy, dreams, and omens. I think Grandmother Vadoma was the last with any real gift and although Ma pretended to read palms she didn’t have no more skill at dukkering than I did. Of course, I’d heard tell that a cat dream spelled deceit, the hunting of wolves meant danger, magpies revealed that your lover wasn’t interested, and talking to the devil told of harm already done, yet the significance of a dead spouse’s floating head never once entered the discussion.

  But Blackbeard was repeatedly stalking my sleep, his hollow eyes melting my back to the hammock as I writhed to wake in a froth of panting sweat. Night after night his dripping face appeared before me until I dreaded closing my lashes because I knew that he was waiting. One time his lips seemed to accuse me, mouthing in disbelief the single cry of You? And I flinched beneath the hostile spittle and tried to squirm to safety. My calm head chanted he couldn’t no longer hurt me but my wild heart swung like a rope in a gale that I feared would break through my ribs in absolute dread. So all day long I’d think about my departed husband—trying to recall what it was that had attracted—trying to remember the parts that were human. Back then I believed that I’d married two intertwined beings—Captain Edward Teach the charmer (charismatic, seductive, learned, and cultured, who knew the seas like a preacher his Bible)—and Blackbeard the pirate (cruel, brittle, rapacious, and evil, who understood fear like Satan his minions). What was the line that connected, divided? How did transformation occur? I carefully analyzed all past events and came to this sharp revelation.

  Inside of Edward Teach lurked a powerful demon. For the most part it slept in his groin, but every now and then it would lift a scaly paw and poke his humors to baser action. It demanded whiskey and rum and wine and sherry and gin and brandy and ale. And with every gulp its body would bloat and its terrible force grow stronger. You could tell, in retrospect, when the monster took hold for the shaggy face would set in an icy state that no sense couldn’t never penetrate. The lips would thin to a steely grimace. The eyes would flare like two raw coals staring in untamed aggression. And as the unholy spirit swelled to the host’s empty brain—the only words heeded thereafter would be the venomous hiss from its itchy taunts. The demon moved Teach like a vacuous puppet, lusting for blood and souls, and when sated would gradually slink back to slumber. Then the buccaneer king would belch or vomit and gradually fade into weariness that overcame his eyelids like a blanket of thick, warm wool. This much I’d ascertained—but on turning my mind to the rest of the crew I wondered how many others were possessed of similar spirits?

  The Nassau I now found had changed. Most of the buccaneers who’d accepted the king’s pardon were still maintaining the pretense, at least in public, while those who’d flagrantly thumbed the offer had left for calmer waters. Then news arrived that Edward Teach was vanquished and that Stede Bonnet had just faced a cowardly execution in Charles Towne. I’m not sure which death shook the ears more—the chopping down of the invincible Blackbeard—or the slaughter of the well-connected gentleman pirate. For if the Royal Navy could bravely outmatch the outsider, and brutally punish the insider, what chance was left for the regular swashbuckler? The whole town was bathed in a subdued disquiet I ain’t never seen the likes of before.

  I hailed one of the unemployed tars at the dockside to cart my trunks to Pierre’s dress shop, and on opening the door the first sight to greet my eager eyes was the back of James Bonny’s head bent over a table with chisel and hammer. I paid the carrier and quickly dismissed him the moment I recognized that mop of sandy hair. “Jim!” I squealed.

  The young man turned at the call, and when he saw it was me a delighted grin cracked his face. He turned to hug me crying, “Hey up, Lola! By the stars . . . where’d you spring from?”

  And that’s how Anne discovered my return—wrapped in the warm embrace of her recently reconciled husband. She stood in the doorway and snarled, “Put that trollop down, Jim. You don’t know where she’s been. . . .”

  I blushed and mumbled, “Hello, Annie.” Then I disengaged myself from the welcoming arms and asked, “Where’s Pierre?” I realized at that point that Jim and Anne must be here together again so I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stay and set up shop alongside.

  Anne sniggered at the plainness of my clothes but the smile died somewhat when she spotted the well-stocked tools of my trade. “Do you intend staying?” she inquired. I nodded. “Then you’ll find Pierre at his whorehouse.” She smirked mischievously and added, “I’m sure you can remember the way.”

  “Leave your stuff here with me, lass,” Jim offered. “I promise to keep it safe.” And as everything was securely padlocked I smiled my gratitude and set off to see what other tacky surprises lay in wait.

  Mary Gee was quite beside herself when she recognized me in the tavern. “You coming back to work, Lola?” she asked hopefully.

  I gave her a quick squeeze and said vaguely, “I’m looking for Pierre. Have you seen him?”

  Mary pointed to my old room upstairs and whispered, “He’s entertaining a special mate. Be down before long, though, love. Come have a drink on me.” She poured us each a tankard of ale and filled me in on events complaining that, “When Rogers arrived at the start of the year there must have been nigh on two thousand pirates in town . . . and now look at it!”

  “So tell me about this new gov’nor,” I interrupted.

  Mary replied, “He looks like a leathery dog in a fancy brown wig.” She thought for a brief while and elaborated, “Got a crooked nose and a dimpled chin . . . and I’m told was wounded in the Pacific, whi
ch is why he walks with a limp.”

  Now, apparently news of the governor’s arrival preceded him so the outlaws had already determined who would accept the pardon and who would fail to comply. Charles Vane gave Rogers an audacious welcome in the harbor, setting alight a blazing prize that tried to ram the official’s ship. Then the pirate fired a volley of defiance before escaping to sea under banner of King Death. Rogers was, however, greeted cordially by the rest of the island, who gave him an unexpectedly loyal parade. The governor immediately set up a council of nonpirates to organize proceedings and entrusted them with the commission of Piracy Expelled, Commerce Restored. So first, they decided to rebuild the decaying fortifications—but as initial volunteers were sparse—and rumor came of a Spanish invasion—martial law soon forced every able muscle. Meanwhile, Benjamin Hornigold had turned pirate hunter and was dispatched to capture his old shipmates, with a special interest on the head of the saucy Captain Vane. Not a few weeks hence he’d rounded up some other motley outlaws ripe for hanging, and a sober air now clung to the strangely quiet streets. I listened to Mary’s chatter and was secretly glad that order had arrived, for now I could set up a real apothecary and be protected by the law. It seemed like we’d all been awarded a rare second chance.