Fire on Dark Water

by Wendy Perriman

  Pierre came downstairs as I sat devouring a ploughman’s pasty. His high-pitched throat called out, “Chérie! You have managed to escape the monster!” I grinned and nodded. I wiped my nose on the back of my hand and said, “Aye—and more besides. . . .”

  He put his powdered arm across my shoulder, glided onto the next chair, signaled for a glass of wine and then declared, “I want to know everything!” So I gave my friends a potted account of my adventures, ending in my decision to run a legitimate business.

  After I’d finished speaking there was a lengthy gap before Mary broke the tension. She said, “You might have a problem, love. . . .”

  I felt a waft of concern and asked, “How so?”

  She looked across at Pierre and he explained gently, “The governor has brought with him the barber-surgeon and the apothecary. The doctor trained at the London Guild and is also a surgeon of the mouth.” I went cold and felt suddenly redundant.

  “What about midwives . . . babies?” I stuttered, grasping at straws.

  Mary answered, “Most still go to Nanny, the local ju-ju woman.”

  My thoughts started swimming madly round my skull. I didn’t want to work back at the inn but my options were shrinking even as we spoke. Finally, Pierre said thoughtfully, “We will set you up secretly at the back of the shop. . . .”

  “But who’d be my customers?” I huffed.

  “Those wishing to avoid awkward questions,” Mary said.

  “And pirates who care not for pardons . . .” Pierre added. “After all, are you not the wife of the most famous rogue? They will trust you.” I reddened with shame and bit my bottom lip as if carefully considering the proposition.

  “What about Annie and Jim?” I inquired. It looked like they were both firmly ensconced at the shop.

  I learned that even before Chidley Bayard moved on to his next mistress Anne had returned feisty as ever, and she’d spent long enough with high society to bring back several popular patterns and novel ideas. With her endorsement, Pierre’s reputation had grown throughout the Bahamas and gentlewomen came from far-off plantations to be fitted for special events. Some came out of curiosity (or spite) just to meet the young woman who’d stabbed Maria Vargas in combat, and knocked out Kate Lawes’s hoity front teeth, but most made the trek for the chance to outshine others because Pierre never repeated the exact same dress twice. Meanwhile, Jim had returned from a profitable cruise that supposedly hauled up chest upon chest of Spanish gold—and although he was one of a huge band of rogues his share was enough to buy back Anne’s temporary affection. So he did odd jobs at the shop and inn, and had whittled a niche carving peg legs and wooden arms for mates who’d been disabled. They were renting their former room, and if we could all get along amicably Pierre said he’d give back my old lodging but I’d have to pay full going rates. I shot my patron a beaming grin and rising from the chair said, “Thanks. It’s good to be back.”

  Pierre stood up and kissed both my cheeks before looking me up and down and declaring, “Merde! Let’s get you out of the hideous skirt!” I laughed and followed his buoyant steps along the dusty street.

  Now, two things immediately struck me as odd. First off, Jim had so diminished in Anne’s eyes I couldn’t never imagine them ever getting back together regardless of how many gold doubloons he managed to acquire. And second, Jim’s fortune seemed to wax and wane as if he were being paid piecemeal instead of having plundered one big score. And it didn’t take me long to figure things out. I kept myself quietly engrossed setting up my apothecary in the background, watching and waiting for some obvious revelation. One day I needed a chisel to open a small tea chest and, thinking it’d be all right to borrow one of Jim’s, I rummaged through his tool sack. At the bottom was a strange smoky bottle stuffed with some kind of herbs ground in dirt and sealed with the gut of an animal. Curious, I took it to the window to see the contents more clearly. Jim walked into view just as I’d got my eye squashed to the side of the curio. I smiled and asked interestedly, “What on earth is this?”

  Jim flew to my arm and wrenched the jar from my grip. “Mind your own bloody business. . . .” His eyes flashed a mixture of fury and fear.

  Thinking it might be a new form of opium I pressed for more information. “What’s in the jar?” I whispered.

  The blanched face spun round to ensure we were alone and then he said guiltily, “A love potion . . .”

  Now I thought he was pulling my leg so I giggled, “Get away with you!”

  But the earnest set of his mouth convinced me more than his tongue had. “Where’d you get it?” I quizzed.

  “Nanny’s village. It’s powerful gris-gris . . . to win Annie back.”

  I was shocked that Jim would resort to such witchcraft—but even more surprised that it seemed to be working. I lusted to know more and wouldn’t let him go until he’d told me who it came from. Apparently he’d paid the local priestesses a live cockerel, twelve eggs, and four candles for a jar of ground herbs mixed with grave dust and glass blessed by the goddess Yemaya. Jim believed that as long as he had this prize in his possession he’d also have Anne close by. I didn’t know quite what to make of it all but realized that some supernatural force, other than the promise of dubious blunt, must be holding his marriage together.

  Jim’s booty was common gossip, but I was sure Annie didn’t know where it was hid or she’d have already taken it and fled. She kept pressing her husband to buy her a horse and he said that he would as soon as the time was ripe, which to me suggested he couldn’t yet afford it. I noted that any coins he fished up came straight out his pocket, and that the velvet pouch seemed better stuffed following his Friday afternoon strolls. Then a couple of weeks after Christmas I finally learned the source—it seems that Jim was spying on his former mates and reporting them to the governor—that for every recalcitrant buccaneer fingered, James Bonny was richly rewarded. Annie was there the night he let slip his secret and the disgust on her lips was enough to ward off a cobra. See, they’d just come back from a night of heavy drinking where Anne had overheard tell of a plot on the governor’s life. But Jim was far too curious wanting to know minute details—who was implicated and said what—who had observed the conspiracy?

  “What’s it matter to you?” she pointedly asked him.

  And then his drunk-loosed tongue foolishly answered, “Rogers will pay most handsomely for sound information as this.”

  We both stared at him, chins tightening with new comprehension. “Damn your bastard mouth, Jim Bonny!” Annie slapped him full across the face. “You worthless black-hearted coward . . .” She paced back and forth as Jim stood nursing his scalding cheek. “Your infernal gob will get us all killed. . . .” Glaring straight into his eyes she roared, “Now what’s to be done?”

  “I . . . I won’t say anything to Rogers if you think it unwise. . . .” he apologized.

  “But there’s some folks around here desperate for a return to the old times.”

  “Aye, we might have to warn him,” Annie said thoughtfully. “We’ll decide on the morrow.” With that she turned and retired to bed, and Jim followed meekly upstairs.

  But by noon next day Mrs. Bonny had already been received by Governor Rogers and confided of the conspiracy. He instantly offered to pay for her loyalty but the cunning young woman just smiled, murmuring she trusted to be remembered in the future. The rogue ringleaders were promptly arrested and publicly flogged for their insolence in the market that following Thursday, but as they consisted of scum and dross, the governor gave no further thought to their thwarted plot.

  I opened my apothecary on St. Valentine’s Day and drew sporadic custom from sailors arriving in port needing treatment straight off the vessels. Word spread rapidly from tar to tar because I was cheaper than the overworked town surgeons, didn’t ask nothing dangerous, and was accredited with special Romany powers that’d helped me escape Blackbeard’s clutches. I’d heard that the survivors at Ocracoke and Bath Towne were being tried in the next fe
w weeks—and when word came that they’d danced for the hangman I was ever so very relieved. Then whispers were murmured that one of the rogues had been unexpectedly reprieved . . . but no one knew who or why.

  For the time being, though, Annie ran the dress shop with Pierre and Jim delivered the orders. I kept to myself as much as possible and we managed to muddle along amidst the sparking tension. Then one sad Tuesday Mary Gee collapsed on the floor of the tavern. I was gutted to learn that Pierre sent first for the barber-surgeon instead of me, who immediately checked her blood flow and pronounced her dead. She’d apparently been struck by apoplexy and there was nothing could be done except mourn. We had a whip-round for cobs among the regulars, managing to give her a decent send-off, and in the interim confusion Jim volunteered to run the bar. And—just like that—James Bonny suddenly discovered his niche in life. He slid behind the Silk Ship pumps easy as well-tarred caulking, and was an instant pull with the punters. Anne encouraged this new enterprise because it got him out of her way and Pierre was pleased to have a man in charge who wouldn’t take advantage of the girls. It also didn’t hurt Jim’s covert work as governor’s snitch—you’d be amazed what folks let slip when they get inside a tankard! In fact, the arrangement was so amenable that Annie set her eye on buying the place if she could persuade Pierre to sell it to them in installments. And as her usual good luck would have it, opportunity swept in sooner than expected.

  See, Pierre had ordered some exclusive black velvet from Paris that arrived on a French merchantman bound for Martinique. When the Calais docked he was invited aboard to collect his bolt and was dazzled by the beautiful array of rare silks, velvets, calicos, lace, and taffeta that filled the hold from floor to rafters. It was a dressmaker’s heaven. And Pierre cast covetous eyes and an open purse at the captain, but was firmly informed that all of the other treasure was already accounted for. That afternoon he bemoaned his fate to me and Anne—and as he waxed on and on about the gorgeous creations cramming his imagination a glint of possibility lit the black of Annie’s eyes. “If the captain won’t sell, then let’s plunder it and be damned!” she said. And it didn’t take much for Pierre’s yearning desire to count him in. By the time Jim returned with the previous night’s takings, a crude, delicious plot was brewing—and before we were fully sensible to the consequences, we’d been drawn inside Annie’s scheme.

  Now, I ain’t kidding when I confess I couldn’t stop giggling at the thought of our makeshift crew—but I also knew that when pressed I could be bold as any Anne Bonny for I’d not been Blackbeard’s partner for nothing. I explained in the cold voice of memory that fear and surprise were our greatest weapons, and that if we put together a clever enough plan we’d get everything we demanded without shedding a ruby of our own blood. So we decided to prey on the superstitious watch as the vessel lay moored in darkness. First off, we thought to attack tomorrow at midnight as the moon would be at its zenith, knowing this was the vessel’s last stop before Martinique so most of the tars would be wenching ashore, leaving only a skeleton crew. Then Annie rubbed up the details for her brassy scenario. We were going to take an abandoned wreck from the dark side of the bay and create a scene from nightmare with some grisly prearranged props. We’d disguise one of Pierre’s dressmaker dummies as a shipwrecked maiden, then splay the tattered sails, deck, and doll in copious amounts of turtle’s blood. The boat would drift into view with Anne fixed in a gory tableaux holding an axe above the dummy as if to chop off her head. I’d be in the water, the unseen force pushing the boat along, while Pierre and Jim (disguised as blood-drenched cutthroats) would creep up the gangplank and take the deck . . . but that’s where our plan fell short. Neither of these two were convincing enough, and we also required someone else waiting with horse and trap to remove the booty. We tossed several suggestions that fell into silence before Pierre announced, “We must have the real buccaneer if we wish to instill real terror!” Six pairs of eyes focused on his lips. “I have a friend who might be of great assistance. He sailed with Charles Vane . . . and is here to accept the pardon.”

  “Who?” Jim asked, far too quickly.

  Pierre gave him a disdainful glare, tapped the side of his nose, and mimed the lacing of his own lips. “Someone who can be totally trusted,” was all he would say.

  “What share will he demand?” Anne asked.

  Pierre chuckled to himself and said lowly, “I think he will settle for the jacket of the finest calico.”

  “And I want the black velvet,” Annie stated.

  They all looked then to me so I shrugged with no set prize in mind, confident they’d treat me right. Pierre, of course, wanted everything but was prepared to barter for the most gorgeous goodies.

  Then Jim, having no use for material, asked if credit could be set against his purchase of the Silk Ship Inn? Pierre thought carefully for the longest time before finally agreeing that his labor would suffice as the first of their spit-pledged payments.

  “Jimmy will drive the trap,” Pierre decided. “My friend and I will clear the deck, and we will all assist with unloading. . . .” He looked squarely at Anne and added, “But make sure you wash off the blood before you touch any of my cloth!” And so it was agreed.

  Later that evening me and Annie went down to the dark side of the dock to find a suitable floating craft among all the abandoned wrecks. We picked out a small sailboat with a battered mast and the remnants of tatty sail flopping over a heavily charred boom, making careful note of how to get back there in tomorrow’s dark. Jim had purchased several turtles from the local catchers and left them upside down on the apothecary floor for our return, and before midnight every part of our despicable plan had been carefully arranged. Just as we were clearing up the debris Pierre arrived with our anonymous accomplice. He ensured the doors were bolted and the shutters drawn tight, then announced with a flourish, “Mesdames, may I present to you my good friend Captain Jacques Rackham. . . .”

  I took one look at the stranger—noted the flare in Annie’s nostrils—and felt some part of earth tilt and shift.

  The captain removed his feathered hat and swept us both a gracious bow. I was pleased that he spoke first to me, saying, “Mrs. Teach, I’ll be bound—I was last with your husband near Bath Towne. My condolences . . .”

  And while I smiled nervously at his pulsing, lithe frame Anne stepped forward with an extended hand. “Pleased to meet you, Cap’n” she cooed, “I’m . . .”

  “. . . Absolutely ravishing!” he offered. “You must be the lovely Anne I’ve heard so much about.”

  Pierre clapped his mate on the arm and said, “Enough with the flirtation! We have business to discuss. . . .” Then he cracked open a bottle of his finest brandy and we sat scheming into the dawn.

  So what can I tell you about Jack Rackham? He was handsome enough to be beautiful yet rugged enough to be tough—was definitely one for the ladies but I could tell Pierre was enamored of him too. His black locks clustered in those natural swirls that the wigmakers couldn’t never imitate. His chin was speckled with stubble and his stunning blue eyes could undress you to the bone. He looked every inch the experienced lover—the sensual kind to seduce not ravish—and yet his playful smile didn’t fool me, who could detect the dangerous cougar that lurked hidden in that tomcat’s purr. Now, you’ve probably heard rumor that Calico Jack was more fancy than pirate but let me tell you—it wasn’t no coward who ever made quartermaster—and it wasn’t no whelp who’d deposed the vicious Charles Vane.

  But don’t worry none if you’ve had the wrong impression because unless you were there too, how could you know? History is such a precarious truth and subject to change in the wake of mythologizing. For the Jack Rackham I knew was not the broken drunk of tawdry gossip . . . well, not in those early days anyway.

  Our plan went exactly to order. I can only imagine the amazement of the Calais watch when they spotted the ghoulish boat glistening out of nightmare, splashed with gleaming blood, an axe-wielding hellion poised ready to d
ismember the maiden corpse. The ghost craft appeared to glide without oar or sail, drifting closer and closer to the shivering souls on the merchantman. A scream of panic burst from the darkness and one of the French crewmen burst into prayer mumbling, “Notre Père qui es aux cieux . . .”

  Meantime, Jack and Pierre stormed the gangplank and had their pistols raised point-blank range at four terrified sailors, shaking their heads in disbelief and still unable to take their eyes off the demonic scene ahead. The raiders, with powdered faces and hands, had skillfully drawn charcoal features that made them look like ghouls gamboling in outsized clothing. The youngest French tar screeched like a virgin. The other three were too confused to offer a resistance. Jack savagely gagged and tied up the prisoners while Pierre spoke harshly in their native language demanding the keys to the hold. Within minutes I managed to propel the craft alongside, then Anne snapped into action rowing round the stern toward the dock. Soon as Jim tied her off she washed her arms clean and scrambled aboard to help Jack and Pierre haul the cloth up on deck, as I hurriedly donned dry clothes. Then me and Jim ran the goods down the plank and threw them into the wagon. It was swift and exhilarating. It was daring and mad. Pierre also stole their good wine—he swore the best in the world came from France—and Jack took all of their nautical charts, which was force of habit for a sea dog. The whole operation was concluded within the hour so we dropped Jim back at the Silk Ship to avoid any suspicion falling in our direction. We soon lost Pierre in the thrill of his heavenly cloth but not before he’d opened one of the vintage bottles to toast our success. Jack washed the muck off his face, then came and entertained us ladies. A little later on he asked me if I’d heard the newly arrived news from Virginia. When I shrugged my face he leaned over and warned, “Israel Hands was reprieved at the final hour and, I’ve heard tell, is gunning for you to exact revenge. . . .”