By Wednesday morning the smoke at the watchtower had dwindled away to a single gray rope. I set to work on the flag, but Pierre ensured that Anne paid full for the cloth while fussing and flapping continually in the background. He said he would help with whatever was going down but didn’t want to know the specifics. I wondered why he was so agitated, and thought perhaps he felt slighted having not been invited to join. But I didn’t know how to broach the subject without giving away any secrets, and Annie hadn’t once mentioned bringing him along. Meantime, she was busying recruiting among the drunks as they rolled from the sand into consciousness. Anne avoided those who frequented Jim’s bar and those who’d never been outlaws, and stumbled upon one of Vane’s old mates who agreed to stand vote as quartermaster. Assuming my consent, she bid them all meet up together in the apothecary Saturday noon, and if half of those approached showed willing we’d have enough to take down a sloop.
Thursday, after I’d finished my sewing, I was sent to market for fresh supplies. Pierre eventually agreed to get the rum and ale so we wouldn’t need to go through Jim, and Annie worked down her list for everything else. In the afternoon we tried out our male disguises, packed personal trunks, and ensured we’d plenty of suitable medicines. Pierre brought over new barrels for water and under cover of darkness we filled these using buckets at the well. This work was thoroughly exhausting and by early evening we were fatigued enough for bed. I’d just slipped into a deep warm sleep when the sound of creaking footsteps crashed my senses. I raised my head to listen more clearly, and heard Anne’s delighted cry to welcome Jack home. And suddenly it seemed like this crazy scheme might actually work—now someone who knew what they were doing was at the helm. I snorted my relief and rolled back into carefree surrender.
Friday morning was a whirl of comings and goings, whispering and plotting, checking and sorting and storing, but now that Jack was back, me and Pierre had lost all usefulness. That same day the pair took a walk on the sand to pick out a likely target—they were going after a sloop called William, which they’d turn into the Revenge. But while they were gone Pierre came purposefully into the apothecary, pulled up a chair, and asked me to sit down alongside. I could see something was bothering him.
“Lola, ma chérie,” he said in a solemn tone, “do you intend going back like the dog to the vomit?” It hadn’t really occurred to me I had a choice. So I nodded dumbly. Pierre looked at me with the saddest expression and quietly swore some French oath under his breath. He took both of my hands in his grasp, stared into my wavering eyes, and asked, “And how do you think all this . . . this . . . madness will end?” I hadn’t thought. Not that far, anyway. So I looked away from his gaze. “It will end badly. . . .” he predicted. “Very very badly.” Letting go with one hand he made a sign that indicated a noose around the neck. “Think of the great buccaneers—Kidd and Blackbeard and Vane and all the others—and then think of Anne and little Lola. Ahhh! My heart grows heavy from the worry. I have not slept well since the governor came to the shop. We were this close to being caught,” he said, holding up two fingers a half inch apart. “. . . This close.” His cheeks wobbled in frightful memory.
“Annie wants me to go,” was all I could think to respond. “And George . . .” I started to say, but then thought better and stopped my tongue.
“George Fetherston?” he asked in dismay. “And what is this man to you?”
“I . . . I’m not sure yet,” I answered. I nibbled my bottom lip in despair. Why was Pierre upsetting our plans? And why was he asking me questions I couldn’t answer? “He’s kind to me,” I muttered. “I know that he likes me.”
My friend patted my hands and explained, “Many men out there find you attractive. You deserve better than this . . . this inferior pirate.”
I looked down at my mangled finger and turned to stare at the floor. Pierre followed my sight and realized how vanity had lowered all feeling of self-worth, so he squeezed my palms and said gently, “You do not have to go because you are told to. And why give your loyalty to Anne who cares nothing for you?”
“But she’s my . . .” I tried to argue.
“She cares nothing,” he repeated. “And this George will forget you the moment he sees another skirt.” He paused for emphasis and then added, “I tell you this as the good friend—take care of your own life.” I heard the words coming from his mouth but I couldn’t accept their meaning. Something was obviously gnawing away at the Frenchman’s thoughts. He finally let go of my hands and sat back on his chair looking at me with one arm flung over the back rail. “It is my deep regret that I said nothing to save you before. . . .”
“Before?” I mumbled. “When?”
“When you came with that terrible man from Blackbeard’s ship.” He reddened with anger, or embarrassment, and continued, “I was the coward not to warn you. I should have forbidden it!” He put his hand to his brow and pushed back his hair.
“Will Howard?” I asked. Then I gave a brief chuckle and said, “He was the best of the lot!” But I could see the regret on my friend’s screwed-up brow. “It’s not your fault, Pierre. I hold you no blame.”
“Thank you, chérie,” he whispered. I could see he was drowning in accountability but I hoped I’d put him at ease.
“So you think it’s more dangerous now to get caught?” I asked. And recalling the flippant remarks I’d heard bandied around the inn, said boldly, “But who’s to say we won’t be granted another pardon?”
He held my eyes and said pointedly, “Non. I am sure there will be no more pardons. And I do not believe you should go.”
“But they need a surgeon. . . .” I argued.
“And when they do not require nursing how do you think the men will use the women? You will not have Blackbeard’s protection this voyage. . . .” And I started to see the cruise through masculine eyes. “I am frightened for you,” he confessed. “I have the bad feeling . . . here . . . in my bones.” He pointed to his chest and I was overwhelmed by his passionate concern. Pierre scratched his chin and then continued in his own unique manner by asking, “Lola—does the fish know that she is wet?”
“What?” I exclaimed. I didn’t have no clue what he meant.
“The fish . . . she knows only the water around her, n’est-ce pas? You are the fish, Lola.” I looked at him with a puzzled frown. He continued, “But there is another way through the water, where you do not have to ride the same wave as everyone else. You can swim. You can be like the salmon and move against the tide.”
I’ve thought about that for the longest time ever after. Pierre was right. I didn’t just have to accept what came at me—I could fight to burn my own trail instead of bobbing along on gray waters. I was young. I was healthy. I had experience and skills that few others possessed. I could make it on my own! So I sniffed back the wetness collecting at the base of my nose and whispered, “Thanks, Pierre. I . . .” But before I needed to embarrass myself further a customer came into the shop, and my friend left quietly to attend them.
Throughout the rest of that long afternoon I thought about how to break the news to Annie. I worked out a logical argument and then practiced saying the words out loud, over and over until I could remember the choicest sequence. Then I watched my face in the mirror-glass as my lips gave the same earnest speech to my own reflection. And finally I began repacking the medical supplies to ensure Jack’s crew would have enough to last them to Cuba. But I worked myself up into a guilt-ridden frenzy before the lovers returned from the docks because this decision was the hardest I’d ever ever made, and although one-half of me wanted to cast myself loose, the other half wasn’t sure I’d have guts enough to do it. Soon as they came back, Pierre herded them through to the apothecary, and after the dressmaker had locked the store he stood to watch my performance from the doorway. The glowing pair had obviously been drinking and were lusting for each other’s flesh, so Anne appeared to listen with half attention and Jack kept trying to nuzzle his cheek on her chest. Pierre raised an eyebro
w prompting me to begin and I launched straight into my monologue, never stopping to draw breath. When I ended with, “So I won’t be coming with you,” Jack finally raised his eyes long enough to look at me while Annie merely shrugged her shoulders and said, “Suit yourself.” She squeezed Jack’s buttocks and murmured something low. And as she led him away with a giggle he looked back over his shoulder and beamed like a moonstruck fool. Pierre raised his hands in silent applause and poured me a much welcomed glass of brandy. After all that worry I felt as if a dreadful weight had been lifted—like I’d shaken off some melancholy ballast that kept my soul from dancing.
Now, it turns out that same afternoon Anne had been aboard the William as the guest of Captain Francis Crane, who fancied he had just bought himself the finest doxy in Nassau. While she’d been entertaining the captain, Jack (under guise of eager procurer) had been casually spying on the crew from the waiting rowboat. Anne discovered that the William was planning to sail on Sunday’s high tide so she promised to return on the morrow with a send-off the captain wouldn’t never forget.
On Saturday morning Jack borrowed Pierre’s wagon and packed up everything they’d be taking with them. The crew began arriving just after noon, and by early evening the formalities had been decided and the plan explained. Naturally there was much debate about taking a woman—but when they realized the whole scheme hinged on Anne’s feminine wiles—and that she and Jack were financing the operation—they agreed to hold negative tongues until after the raid. If Annie performed well she’d be voted in. And if she failed, well, none would be going a-cruising anyway. The men agreed on Rackham as captain, Fetherston as master, and Corner for second-in-command and their quartermaster. I acted as scribe as they drew up articles and one by one they signed their marks—John Davis, John Howell, Patrick Carty, Thomas Earl, James Dobbin and Noah Hardwood. Jack knew the waters to Cuba so he agreed to navigate, and Anne would organize the galley. They joked she could act as powder monkey in battle—little knowing she’d fight more ruthlessly than their best. But when George asked if I’d be coming too I shook my head, said I’d help them to capture the sloop, though, and mumbled that I’d decided to stay in Nassau.
Now I’d once told Rackham about my escape on Ocracoke and he’d listened enough to remember that laudanum could take out the stoutest of stomachs. So he bought three vintage bottles of wine from Pierre and bid me carefully steam off the seals to doctor these in a similar fashion. I did such a good job he insisted on paying me for my part in their enterprise, cleverly persuading me to go aboard the William as Annie’s friend—I’d carry the wine—and that way we could smuggle a pistol in the basket alongside the knives in our boots. Anne would get Captain Crane drunk, while I distracted the other tars, and soon as they were incapable, the pirates would take the deck. Pierre reluctantly agreed to wait with the trap until all the goods were safely stowed, then he and I would depart as the sloop hauled anchor. High tide was at three o’clock and the time was now two hours to midnight.
Jack took his crew and assembled them in various shadows along the docks. We’d shared a cold-meat supper with plenty of rum, enough to stir up the courage, then Pierre drove us to the beach and temporarily retired from view. The boatswain whistled us aboard with two fingers while Jack rowed back to the shore and began silently ferrying his men out to the anchored craft. The buccaneers secured themselves in the ropes, just out of view of the deck, balling for action like tigers about to maul. Annie went into Crane’s cabin with one bottle of wine and left me to distribute the rest to the others. I saw several jack-tars milling around at first but after Corner’s shadow slipped stealthily on deck, one by one they began sinking into darkness. I ended up dancing for three keen suitors and had to keep moving, as an excuse not to drink too much of the tainted wine. One of the sailors finally undid his breeches to boast of the treat he had waiting in store and waved his wood about, urging me to kiss it. Suddenly a strangled gurgle tore from deep belowdecks. I panicked, fumbled for the loaded flintlock in the basket, and stood waving the pistol at the three woozy men. “Kiss my arse, you mangy bastard! On your knees—all of you—if you value your life!” Three sets of pupils burst in comprehension. But no one moved. Then a cold flush of realization dribbled down my spine—I had only one bullet. They would know that.
Yet before their wavering minds could press any advantage Annie appeared by my side sprayed in the captain’s blood, stabbing the air with a dripping knife and daring the next foolish challenge. I heard Jack’s low signal, then the splash of bodies tossed overboard, and realized through a descending fog that the men on deck were now ours. We’d taken the William! Jack whispered urgent orders and Dobbin was dispatched to row over the stores. Everyone helped bring them aboard, and I waited anxiously to be taken ashore while suppressing the nauseous gurgling in my stomach. But as soon as the longboat was empty the new captain signaled it hauled up on deck. Corner barked orders, ropes started creaking, and I realized the sloop was edging into the tide. “Hey!” I said to George. “I need to get off. . . .”
He laughed, shook his head, and said, “Cap’n Jack’s orders!” So I stumbled down to the cabin to reason with Anne, but she wasn’t there.
Crane’s butchered body was, though—draped awkwardly half on the bunk and half on the floor—the blood from his mangled throat congealing underneath him. Annie must have hacked numerous blows to fell the beast for telltale holes were pitted about his groin and chest, and I’d seen enough swashbuckler work to note an amateur hand at play. I heaved in disgust and brought up most of the supper I’d earlier enjoyed. But the opium had already leeched in my blood and I knew if it overpowered my will I’d be stuck in another long nightmare. The cabin had a water cask so I steadily gulped down as much as my gut would hold, and then opened the window to let out the smell. Without further thought I pushed a trunk to the opening and wiggled myself in the gap. The water was probably six feet below but I thought if I slid down the stern I could ease in like an alligator. So I crawled, hand over hand down the wood, and when I felt the water embrace me I kicked off and headed for shore. No one heard my plop. No one missed my presence. I struck out with long, determined strokes, praying against hope that Pierre would wait. He did. I felt the grab of my dress as he struggled to haul me in, then the joggle of horse hooves wobbling me home, then the hot milk he spooned in my mouth to warm me. I awoke around noon in a chair by the fire with a head aching so hard I thought I’d been hit by a boom. “Did they make it?” was the first thought that came into clarity.
Pierre gave a serious nod and said, “Oui.” I exhaled loudly and realized that I too was finally free.
You’ve no doubt heard the rest of the legend—how they bloodied the seas for more than a year—how coincidence sent them Mary Reed—how Captain Barnet captured them drunk? But that’s for the telling of another day or other tongues. As for me . . . I try to think kindly of Annie. Rackham’s body was put in the gibbet after execution and strung from the rocks at the Cay that now bears his name. I heard Anne was pregnant and pleaded her belly at trial, but I don’t think she ever hanged . . . she just fell off the edge of our world and into future folklore. It’s rumored her father secured a release and married her off to a Carolina planter, but whether that’s true or not I shan’t say. Jim Bonny, as it happened, tattled one too many times and last year was found with his throat slit out back. So Pierre resumed former ownership of the Silk Ship and I help out when it’s busy.
There is something about me, ain’t there? You noticed the moment your eyes grew used to the dingy light of the tavern. And you came here, like everyone who struts these worn boards, for tattle of Anne Bonny and pirates. Well, I trust your curiosity has been sated as much as my thirst, Mr. Defoe. Or should I address you as Captain Johnson? But, pray, sir, take pains that your published account contains nary a mention of Lolomura Blaise. . . .
And I really can’t tell you too much more now. So that—as they say—is that.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to all the family and friends, press-ganged aboard the pirate life, who have accompanied my many escapades: Heather Unwin was there when I first found inspiration in Nassau—Steve and Symon Perriman sailed alongside to Jamaica, Hispaniola, the Spanish Main, and the Carolinas—Tricia Clark, my mate in Beaufort, also signed on for the Mansfield Plantation trip—Valerae Hurley explored Charleston with me—Michel and Bryan Faliero gave their kind Southern hospitality—Sarah Green and Eunice Brezicki shared their expertise at the Latta Plantation—Matt and Karen Clauss enabled the voodoo experience in New Orleans—and David Banks and Patty Cardillo were part of the gang bound for Mexico.
My gratitude goes to Scottish and maritime historian Dr. Eric J. Graham for casting his well-seasoned salty eye over the technical details of the book. Any remaining errors are, of course, entirely mine. Also to the following folks, who have aided in the research process: Kathryn Green at the Mansfield Plantation in South Carolina—Gilles and Betty Cloutier for their offer of assistance at the Hammock House in Beaufort—and the friendly staff at the Beaufort Historic Site, Beaufort Maritime Museum, and the Latta Plantation. Thanks also to Matthew Godwin of the Crowe Law Firm for his legal advice in Beaufort.
Finally, a very special acknowledgment to my chief crew members: Symon Perriman at Microsoft—for all manner of computer assistance; Vangie Schlesinger—for her keen reading and foreign language skills; Ann Collette at the Helen Rees Agency—my wonderfully efficient and supportive advocate; and Emily Rapoport at Berkley—whose fine editorial advice helped me navigate the dark waters of publication.
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