Assassin's Creed: Black Flag

by Oliver Bowden

  The captain’s screams took some time to die down, and when they had, his head lolled forward onto his chest and a long rope of saliva dripped to the cabin floor.

  “Give me that back,” I said to Blaney.

  “Why should I give it to you?”

  “Now come on, Blaney . . .” I started. Then we heard something, a shout from outside, “Sail ho!”

  It wasn’t as though our feud was forgotten, just placed to one side for a moment. Blaney pointed his dagger and said, “Wait there,” as he left the room to see what was going on.

  The open door framed a scene of sudden panic outside but as the ship lurched it slammed shut. I looked from the door to Captain Pritchard, groaning in pain. I’d never wanted to be a pirate. I was a sheep-farmer from Bristol. A man in search of adventure, it’s true, but by fair means not foul. I wasn’t a criminal, an outlaw. I’d never wanted to be party to the torture of innocent men.

  “Untie me,” said the captain, his voice dry and pained. “I can help you. I can guarantee you a pardon.”

  “If you tell me about the ring.”

  Captain Pritchard was moving his head slowly from side to side as though to shake away the pain. “The ring, what ring . . . ?” he was saying, confused, trying to work out why on earth this young deck-hand should be asking him about such an irrelevance.

  “A mysterious man I consider my enemy wore a ring just like yours. I need to know its significance.”

  He gathered himself. His voice was parched but measured. “Its significance is great power, my friend, great power that can be used to help you.”

  “What if that great power was being used against me?”

  “That can be arranged as well.”

  “I feel it already has been used against me.”

  “Set me free and I can use my influence to find out for you. Whatever wrong has been done to you, I can see it put right.”

  “It involves the woman I love. Some powerful men.”

  “There are powerful men and powerful men. I swear on the Bible, boy, that whatever ails you can be solved. Whatever wrong has been done to you can be put right.”

  Already my fingers were fiddling with his knots but just as the ropes came away and slithered to the cabin floor, the door burst open. Standing in the doorway was Captain Dolzell. His eyes were wild. His sword was drawn. Behind him was a great commotion on the ship. Men who moments before had been ready to board the Amazon Galley, as organized a fighting unit as we could be, were suddenly in disarray.

  Captain Dolzell said one word, but it was enough.

  “Privateers.”

  NINETEEN

  “Sir?” I said.

  Thankfully, Dolzell was too preoccupied with developments to wonder what I was doing standing behind Captain Pritchard’s chair. “Privateers are coming,” he cried.

  In terror I looked from Dolzell to where I’d just untied Captain Pritchard’s hands.

  Pritchard revived. Though he had the presence of mind to keep his hands behind his back, he couldn’t resist taunting Dolzell, “It’s Edward Thatch, come to our rescue. You’d better run, Captain. Unlike you, Edward Thatch is a privateer loyal to the Crown, and when I tell him what has taken place here . . .”

  In two long strides, Dolzell darted forward and thrust the point of his sword into Pritchard’s belly. Pritchard tautened in his seat, impaled on the blade. His head shot back and upside-down eyes fixed on mine for a second before his body went limp and he slumped in the chair.

  “You’ll tell your friend nothing,” snarled Dolzell as he removed his blade.

  Pritchard’s hands fell to hang limply by his sides.

  “His hands are untied,” Dolzell’s accusing eyes went from Pritchard to me.

  “Your blade, sir, it sliced the rope,” I said, which seemed to satisfy him. He turned and ran from the cabin. At the same time the Emperor shook—I later found out that Thatch’s ship had hit us side-on. There were some who said the captain had been rushing towards the fight and that the impact of the privateers’ ship had knocked him off the deck, over the gunwale and into the water. There are others who said that the captain, with images of Execution Dock in his mind, had plunged off the side in order to escape capture.

  From the Navigation Room I took a cutlass and a pistol that I thrust into my belt, then dashed out of the cabin and onto the deck.

  What I found was a ship at war. The privateers had boarded from the starboard, while on the port side the crew of the Amazon Galley had taken their opportunity to fight back. We were hopelessly outnumbered and even as I ran into the fray with my sword swinging I could see that the battle was lost. Sluicing across the deck was what looked like a river of blood. Everywhere I could see lay men I had been serving with either dead or draped over the gunwales, their bodies lined with bleeding slashes. Others were fighting on. There was the roar of musket and pistol, the day torn apart by the constant ring of steel, the agonized screams of the dying, the warrior yells of the attacking buccaneers.

  Even so, I found myself strangely on the outside of the battle. Cowardice has never been a problem with me, but I am not sure I exchanged more than two sword strokes with one of the enemy, before it seemed the battle was over. Many of our men were dead. The rest began to drop to their knees and let their swords fall to the deck, hoping, no doubt, for the clemency of our invaders. Some still fought on, including the first mate, Trafford, and by his side a man I didn’t know, Melling, I think his name was. As I watched, two of the attacking buccaneers came at Melling, at once swinging their swords with such force that no amount of fighting skills could stop them and he was driven back to the rail, slashes and cuts opening up in his face, then screaming as they both stabbed into him.

  Blaney was there, I saw. Also, not far away, was the captain of the privateers’ ship, a man I would come to know as Edward Thatch, and who in years later the world would know as Blackbeard. He was just as the legend would know him though his beard was not so long back then: tall and thin, with thick, dark hair. He had been in the fray; his clothes were splattered with blood and it dripped from the blade of his sword. He and one of his men had advanced up the deck and I found myself standing with two of my ship-mates, Trafford and Blaney.

  Blaney. It would have to be him.

  The battle was over. I saw Blaney look from me to Trafford then to Thatch. A plan formed and in the next instance he’d called to Captain Thatch, “Sir, shall I finish them for you?” and swept his sword around to point at me and Trafford. For me he reserved an especially evil grin.

  We both stared at him in absolute disbelief. How could he do this?

  “Why, you scurvy bilge-sucking bastard!” yelled Trafford, outraged at the treachery. He leapt towards Blaney, jabbing his cutlass more in hope than expectation, unless his expectation was to die, for that’s exactly what happened.

  Blaney stepped easily to one side and at the same time whipped his sword in an underhand slash across Trafford’s chest. The first mate’s shirt split and blood drenched his front. He grunted in pain and surprise but that didn’t stop him launching a second yet, sadly for him, even wilder attack. Blaney punished him for it, slashing again with the cutlass, landing blow after blow, catching Trafford again and again across the face and chest, even after Trafford had dropped his own blade, fallen to his knees and, with a wretched whimper and blood bubbling at his lips, pitched forward to the deck and lay still.

  The rest of the deck had fallen silent; each man left alive was looking over to where Blaney and I stood between the invaders and the entrance to the captain’s cabin. It felt as though we were the only men alive.

  “Shall I finish him, sir?” said Blaney. Before I could react the point of his sword was at my throat. Again he grinned.

  The crowd of men seemed to part around Edward Thatch as he stepped forward.

  “Now”—he waved at Blaney with his cutlass, which still dripped with the blood of our crew—“why would you be calling me, ‘sir,’ lad?”

  Th
e point of Blaney’s sword tickled my throat. “I hope to join you, sir,” he replied, “and prove my loyalty to you.”

  Thatch turned his attention to me. “And you, young ’un, what did you have in mind, besides dying at your ship-mate’s sword, that is? Would you like to join my crew as a privateer or die a pirate, either at the hands of your crewmate here, or back home in Blighty?”

  “I never wanted to be a pirate, sir,” I said quickly. (Stop yer grinning.) “I merely wanted to earn some money for my wife, sir, honest money to take back to Bristol.”

  (A Bristol from which I was banished and a wife I was prevented from seeing. But I decided not to bother Thatch with the little details.)

  “Aye,” laughed Thatch, and threw out an arm to indicate the mass of captured men behind him, “and I suppose I could say this for every one of your crew left alive. Every man will swear he never intended a career in piracy. Ordered to do it by the captain, they’ll say. Forced into it against their will.”

  “He ruled with a rod of iron, sir,” I said. “Any man who said as much would be telling you the truth.”

  “How did your captain manage to persuade you to enter into this act of piracy, pray tell?” demanded Thatch.

  “By telling us we would soon be pirates anyway, sir, when a treaty was signed.”

  “Well he’s right most likely”—Thatch sighed thoughtfully—“no denying it. Still, that’s no excuse.” He grinned. “Not while I remain a privateer that is, sworn to protect and assist Her Majesty’s Navy, which includes watching over the likes of the Amazon Galley. Now—you’re not a swordsman, are you, boy?”

  I shook my head no.

  Thatch chuckled. “Aye, that is apparent. Didn’t stop you throwing yourself at this man here though, did it? Knowing that you would meet your end at the point of his sword. Why was that then?”

  I bristled. “Blaney had turned traitor, sir, I saw red.”

  Thatch jammed the point of his cutlass to the deck, rested both hands on the hilt and looked from me to Blaney, who had added wariness to his usual expression of angry incomprehension. I knew how he felt. It was impossible to say from Thatch’s demeanour where his sympathies lay. He simply looked from me to Blaney, then back again. From me to Blaney, then back again.

  “I have an idea,” he roared at last, and every man on the deck seemed to relax at once. “Let’s settle this with a duel. What do you say, lads?”

  Like a set of scales, the crew’s spirits rose as mine sank. I had barely used a blade. Blaney, on the other hand, was an experienced swordsman. Settling the matter would be the work of a heartbeat for him.

  Thatch chuckled. “Ah, but not with swords, lads, because we’ve already seen how this one here has certain skills with the blade. No, I suggest a straight fight. No weapons, not even knives, does that suit you, boy?”

  I nodded yes, thinking what would suit me most was no fight at all, but a straight fight was the best I could hope for.

  “Good.” Thatch clapped his hands and his sword shuddered in the wood. “Then let us begin. Come on, lads, form a ring, let these two gentlemen get to it.”

  The year was 1713, and I was about to die, I was sure of it.

  Thinking about it—that was nine years ago, wasn’t it? It would have been the year you were born.

  TWENTY

  “Then let us begin,” Thatch commanded.

  Men had climbed the rigging and clung to the masts. Men were in the rat-lines, on the rails and the top decks of all three ships—every man-jack of them craning to get a better view. Playing to the crowd, Blaney stripped off his shirt so that he was down to his breeches. Conscious of my puny torso, I did the same. Then we dropped our elbows, raised our fists, eyed each other up.

  My opponent grinned behind raised forearms—his fists were as big as hams and twice as hard. His knuckles like statues’ noses. No, this probably wasn’t quite the sword fight Blaney wanted, but it was the next best thing. The chance to pulverize me with the captain’s consent. To beat me to death without risking the taste of a cat-o’-nine-tails.

  From the decks and rigging came the shouts of the crew keen to witness a good bout. By which I mean a bloody bout. Just from the catcalls it was difficult to make out if they had a favourite, but I put myself in their position: what would I want to see if I were them? I’d want to see sport.

  So let’s give it to them. I brought my own fists up and what I thought about was how Blaney had been a huge pain in the arse from the moment I had set foot on board. Nobody else. Just him. This thick-as-pigshit cretin. All my time on ship I’d spent dodging Blaney and wondering why he hated me because I wasn’t snot-nosed and arrogant then, not like I’d been back home. Life on board had tamed that side of me. I dare say I’d grown up a bit. What I’m saying is, he had no real reason to hate me.

  Right then it came to me the reason why. He hated me because. Just because. If I hadn’t been around to hate, he would have found someone else to fill my shoes. One of the cabin boys, perhaps, one of the black sailors. He just liked hating.

  And for that I hated him in return, and I channelled that feeling, that hate. Perplexed at his hostility? I turned it into hate. Staying out of his way day after day? I turned it into hate. Having to look at his stupid, thick face day after day? Turned it into hate.

  Because of that, the first strike was mine. I stepped in and it seemed to explode out of me, using my speed and my size to my advantage, ducking beneath his protecting fists and smashing him in the solar plexus. He let out an oof and staggered back, the surprise more than the pain making him drop his guard, enough for me to dance quickly to my left and drive forward with my left fist, finding a spot above his right eye that, just for one delicious second, I thought might have been good enough to finish him off.

  A roar of approval and blood-lust from the men. It had been a good punch, enough to open a cut that began to leak a steady stream of blood down his face. But no, it wasn’t enough to stop him for good. Instead, the look of angry incomprehension he always wore became even more uncomprehending. Even angrier. I’d landed two punches, he precisely none. He hadn’t even moved from his spot.

  I flitted back. I’ve never been one for fancy foot-work, but compared to Blaney I was nimble. Plus I had the advantage. First blood to me and with the crowd on my side. David versus Goliath.

  “Come on, you fat bastard,” I taunted him. “Come on, this is what you wanted to do the minute I came aboard the ship. Let’s see what you got, Blaney.”

  The crew had heard me and shouted their approval, perhaps for my sheer gumption. From the corner of my eye I saw Thatch throw back his head and laugh, with his hand at his belly. To save face, Blaney had to act. You have to give it to him. He acted.

  Friday had told me that Blaney was skilled with his blade and was an essential member of the Emperor’s boarding party. He hadn’t mentioned that Blaney was also good with his fist and I, for some reason, never assumed he had much in the way of boxing skills. But one bit of nautical wisdom I had learnt was “never assume” and, on this occasion at least, I ignored it. Once again my arrogance had got me into trouble.

  How quick the crowd was to turn as Blaney struck. Never go down in the fight. It’s the one golden rule. But I had no choice as his fist made contact and bells rang in my head as I went to the deck on my hands and knees and spat out teeth on a string of blood and phlegm. My vision jarred and blurred. I’d been hit before, of course, many times, but never—never—as hard as that.

  Amid the rushing of my pain and the roaring of the spectators—roaring for blood, which Blaney was going to give to them, with pleasure—he bent to me, putting his face close enough for me to smell his rancid breath, which spilled like fog over black and rotted teeth.

  “‘Fat bastard,’ eh?” he said, and hawked up a green. I felt the wet slap of phlegm on my face. One thing you have to say about a “fat bastard” taunt—it always gets them going.

  Then he straightened, and his boot was so near to my face I could see th
e spider-cracks in the leather. Still trying to shake off the pain, I lifted one pathetic hand as though to ward off the inevitable kick.

  The kick, though, was aimed not at my face but squarely at my belly, so hard that it lifted me into the air and I was deposited back to the deck. From the corner of my eye I saw Thatch, and perhaps I had allowed myself to believe that he favoured me in the bout, but he was laughing just as heartily at my misfortune as he had been when Blaney was rocked. I rolled weakly to my side as I saw Blaney coming towards me. The men on the decks were shouting for blood by then. He lifted his boot to stamp me, looked up to Thatch. “Sir?” he asked him.

  To hell with that. I wasn’t waiting. With a grunt I grabbed his foot, twisted it and sent him sprawling back to the deck. A tremor of renewed interest ran through the spectators. Whistles and shouts. Cheers and boos.

  They didn’t care who won. They just wanted the spectacle. Blaney was down and with a fresh surge of strength I threw myself on top of him, pummelling him with my fists at the same time as I drove my knees into his groin and midriff, attacking him like a child in the throes of a temper tantrum, hoping against hope that I might lay him out with a lucky blow.

  I didn’t. There were no lucky blows that day. Just Blaney grabbing my fists, wrenching me to the side, slamming the flat of his hand into my face and sending me flying backwards. I heard my nose break and felt blood gush over my top lip. Blaney lumbered over and this time he wasn’t waiting for Thatch’s permission. This time he was coming on for the kill. In his fist shone a blade . . .

  There was the crack of a pistol and a hole appeared on his forehead. His mouth dropped open, and the fat bastard fell to his knees then dead to the deck.

  When my vision cleared I saw Thatch reaching to help me from the deck with one hand. In the other a flint-lock pistol, still warm.