Malcolm gave him the looking glass, waiting as the trader scanned the water. Finally, the stout man grunted and nodded. “Your lad is right, Captain. We’ve got another vessel approaching.” He handed the glass back and pointed. “Looks like a small fishing boat. But only the devil himself knows what it's doing this far from shore.”
Malcolm felt a thud in his chest and he hurried to raise the glass, focusing ten degrees to the right of the two anchored sloops. It took him a moment to locate the boat, which was sitting low in the water. If not for the tiny sail, it wouldn’t have been seen at all. He could see three figures there—one at the back, with another working the sail. The third person stood in the bow waving a red cloth. Malcolm realized with a start that it was a large black woman.
“Claire,” Malcolm said under his breath in dismay, recognizing the woman from Thache’s memories. It was Margaret, Mary’s house slave. Malcolm had seen her sleeping by the fire as he left the house and he cursed himself for not putting two and two together sooner. Shouts began to rise over the water just then, and Malcolm focused the glass back on the two sloops. A longboat was being lowered from the smaller of the two, and for a moment, Malcolm thought they would go after the fishing vessel, but then he saw a man using a sounding line as the longboat inched its way toward the island.
“They be weighing anchor, Captain,” William Howard stated, gesturing to the two sloops as the Adventure’s crew watched from the railings.
The ships were coming in a line following the longboat, with the smaller one, called the Ranger, coming first, and the larger, the Jane, bringing up the rear. Both sloops were moving cautiously, using their oars to propel them over the shallow water. Malcolm guessed the sounding boat was already less than a thousand yards away, though neither of the sloops behind it had shown their colors yet, which had the crew muttering with disapproval. Malcolm switched his gaze to Claire’s boat, which was sailing full ahead, heedless of any hidden shoals. The vessel was so light that Malcolm doubted they’d have any trouble. He knew they’d be alongside within minutes.
“Mister Gibbons,” Malcolm snapped.
“Aye, Captain?”
Malcolm gestured toward the approaching fishing vessel. “We’re about to have guests. Bring them aboard when they arrive.”
“Aye, Captain,” the bosun said, shouting orders to the crew. Malcolm knew they’d lose valuable time waiting for Claire, and he considered just leaving her out there, then discounted it. He was fairly certain there was little that she could do to change the outcome of what was about to happen now, anyway.
“Mister Morton,” Malcolm grunted, fixing his eyes on Thache’s master gunner. “Get on that bow chaser and give those scallywags out there something to think about.”
“With pleasure, Captain,” Morton said, a giant grin on his face.
Malcolm looked around at the rest of his crew, many of whom were clearly still half-drunk. “Well, what are ye bilge rats waiting for?” he roared. “Man yer bloody stations!”
Malcolm turned back to the sea as his men scrambled to obey. Inside he felt confused about what was happening, knowing that the last orders coming from his mouth had been issued by Edward Thache, not him. He could feel a struggle going on inside his head, realizing with a shiver of wonder and dread that Thache’s personality wasn’t nearly as dormant as he’d thought. The feared pirate, called the scourge of the seven seas for a reason, was not going to let his ship and life go down without a fight, it seemed. Malcolm abruptly found himself thrust aside as the other man’s character reasserted itself fully, emotions of hatred and anger washing over him in a sea of black fury.
“You bastard!” Thache hissed, turning toward Samuel Odell. The smaller man blanched at the look on the big pirate’s face and he scurried away, disappearing down into the hold. Malcolm watched him go, realizing that Blackbeard hadn’t been talking to the trader at all—he’d been talking to him. Malcolm stood frozen by the railing in terror, fighting to regain control from the enraged pirate, not knowing what would happen if he failed.
“Ready, Captain,” Morton called from the forecastle, a slow-match crackling in his hand.
Malcolm stood where he was, shaking as though he had ALS again as the battle of wills continued to seesaw back and forth in his mind.
“Captain?” Morton called again.
“Fire, damn you!” Thache finally hissed through clenched teeth, breaking through Malcolm’s control once again. The cannon boomed moments later, and Malcolm watched as the ball cut through the air with a whistling sound, arcing over the longboat before splashing into the water with a slap, sending spray washing over the terrified sailors huddled below the railings. Birds took off all around the Adventure and along the shoreline at the harsh sound, squawking in fright. “Again, Mister Morton,” Thache snarled, waiting for the bow chaser to be reloaded before again the small cannon boomed. The second ball came closer than the first, and the men in the sounding boat finally turned and rowed furiously back to the oncoming sloops as the pirates jeered at them.
“That should send whoever those bastards are on their way, Captain,” William Howard said with a wide grin that quickly faltered. The sloops were still coming on despite the warning shots.
Malcolm hesitated, the fearsome, seething presence of Edward Thache from moments ago suddenly absent. He blinked in confusion as Howard looked at him expectantly. Thache might be gone again, Malcolm realized, but his memories of how to run a ship remained. Malcolm glanced to the forecastle, knowing what the pirate would have done next, determined to play it out until the end. “Mister Morton, roll out the starboard guns. Swan and partridge shot, if you please.”
“Aye, Captain.”
“Mister Gibbons, the moment our guests are aboard, cut the anchor cable and bring us about. There won’t be time to raise it.”
“Aye, Captain,” the bosun said with a grim nod.
“And while you’re at it, Mister Gibbons, raise the Jolly Roger and show these bastards who they’re dealing with.”
The bosun grinned, nodding as he strode away while Malcolm leaned on the railing and stared at the approaching enemy, still not a hundred percent certain that he was fully in charge of what was happening. He felt a strange emotion welling in his chest, realizing in surprise that despite the circumstances, he was enjoying the moment immensely. Whether that enjoyment was stemming from him or Thache, or both of them, he wasn’t entirely sure. Malcolm stood straighter and breathed in deeply, smelling the sea, the sweat, and the burning gunpowder, never having felt so alive in his life.
“Gerald!”
Malcolm turned in surprise, staring as Margaret’s head appeared over the gunwale. Somehow in all the excitement, he’d forgotten about her. A crewmember helped her onto the deck, and the moment her feet hit the planking, the big woman was running toward him.
“Oh, Gerald!” she cried, enveloping him in her heavy arms. Malcolm could hear cat whistles and jeers starting as Claire pressed her lips against his.
“Claire, wait,” Malcolm said, pushing her back as a second frightened face appeared over the gunwale. It was Nathanial, a slave belonging to Mary’s father, followed by an older man who Thache didn’t know. “There isn’t time for this now.”
“Isn’t time?” Claire said. She laughed then. “We have all the time in the world, darling.”
“Captain, look!” Owen Roberts, the ship’s carpenter, cried, pointing to the sloops.
The larger ship had come to a halt, caught up on a sandbar, while the smaller vessel continued onward stubbornly. Malcolm could see the crew on the larger sloop frantically jettisoning whatever they could to lighten the load. Then a howl broke out across Adventure as the lead sloop ran aground as well.
“They’re well and done now, Captain!” Gibbons shouted with glee. “Sittin’ pretty as ye please.”
“Aye, they are that,” Malcolm growled. He noticed Claire staring at him in wide-eyed wonder, but had no time to dwell on it. He gestured to the new arrivals. “Caesar,
” he called. “Take our guests below.”
“Aye, Captain,” the pirate said, motioning the three slaves ahead of him.
“But Gerald!” Claire protested.
Malcolm put his hands on her arms, staring into her eyes, hating himself for what he was about to do. But though he was convinced it was too late for her to change Blackbeard’s fate, it still seemed prudent to be rid of her until he’d met his end just in case. “It’s all right, my love,” he said. “This is all part of history. There’s nothing to fear. As soon as I’m done here, we can talk as much as you want.”
Claire looked at him uncertainly. “Really? Because I thought—”
Malcolm put a finger to her lips, silencing her. “Trust me. I know what I’m doing. Just go below where you’ll be safe.”
Claire hesitated for a moment, then she finally nodded, giving him an enthusiastic hug before letting Caesar lead her below.
“And Caesar,” Malcolm called after the former slave. “Tell Mister Odell to stay down in the hold no matter what happens.” The trader would be tried later, Malcolm knew, but would be acquitted of any transgressions against King George, since it was determined he’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. “Oh, and bring me my pistols,” Malcolm added. “I’m going to make these bastards wish they’d never been born.”
Caesar grinned widely. “Here, here to that, Captain,” he called as the Adventure’s rope anchor was severed and the ship shuddered, her mainsail and jib billowing as the light wind took them.
Malcolm drew his cutlass and pointed at the smaller of the grounded sloops. “Steady on,” he shouted to the coxswain at the wheel. “Bring us alongside the scoundrels, and we’ll give them a taste of hot iron and cold steel.”
The pirates cheered their captain as Caesar reappeared with several bandoliers jammed with six pistols. Malcolm put them on, grinning as another man handed him a mugful of wine. All he was missing now to complete the legend was a slow-match burning on either side of his tricorn hat that he’d read Blackbeard had favored while attacking. That fearsome image had been carefully cultivated over time by Edward Thache to help sow terror and dread all across the West Indies and eastern coast of Britain’s North American colonies, enabling him to capture many ships without a fight.
“Captain!” William Morton shouted. “They be raisin’ colors!”
The Adventure was almost within musket range of the smaller sloop as it broke free from the sandbar, followed moments later by the second ship. The pirates hissed and jeered, some groaning as it became apparent what flag they were both flying at the mastheads—the Union Jack.
“The bastards are Royal Navy!” Malcolm heard one man cry in dismay.
“We’re done for lads!” another shouted. “King George will have us all dancin’ the hempen jig by sundown.”
“Belay that talk!” William Morton snarled, kicking the offending crewman savagely. He glared at the man. “Get back ta yer work!”
“They’re trying to match us, Captain,” the bosun called in warning as the captain of the smaller sloop, the Ranger, altered his course, trying to come alongside the Adventure.
Malcolm could see men with muskets, cutlasses, and pistols crouched all along her deck and he grimaced, not relishing this part. “Mister Morton,” he finally shouted. “Send them our greeting, if you please.”
“Aye, Captain,” the master gunner responded as he strode along the deck behind the cannon crews. “All right, me hearties, time ta send King George a message he won’t soon forget. Fire!”
The cannons all along Adventure’s main deck suddenly roared, shaking the timber beneath Malcolm’s feet on the quarterdeck. A haze of blue smoke obscured his vision for a moment, but the screams coming from the Ranger were enough to let him know the chunks of metal, nails, and bits of chain or whatever else could be stuffed into the cannons had done their work.
“Gawd Almighty,” Caesar whispered beside Malcolm as the smoke cleared.
The Ranger’s decks had been decimated, with men lying twisted and torn everywhere Malcolm looked. He glanced to the smaller ship’s quarterdeck, grimacing as he saw the remains of the ship’s captain and coxswain. The Ranger’s rigging was in tatters and she started to wallow and veer off course as Adventure swung past her. Behind the stricken ship, Malcolm could see the second sloop, Jane, had taken some damage from his cannons as well, though the decks were still swarming with men.
“Take cover!” someone suddenly shouted, and both Malcolm and Caesar automatically ducked as musket fire strafed Adventure as they sailed past the Ranger. It seemed the ship’s surviving crew had not given up the fight just yet.
Malcolm heard William Horton cursing and he looked up, watching as the triangular sail at the front of the ship—called a jib—floated almost serenely down to the decking below. The jib’s halyard, the line holding the sail up, had been severed. Undoubtedly by a lucky musket ball shot from the Ranger’s deck. Adventure slowed almost immediately and she swerved off course, coming to a shuddering halt moments later. Beside Malcolm, Caesar groaned. Now it was their turn to find themselves grounded on a bar.
“Lighten her, lads, and be quick!” Malcolm ordered as his men worked frantically to throw anything of weight overboard. Malcolm remained where he was, staring in fascination across the water at Jane’s quarterdeck, where a man stood peering back at him. He was tall and lean, wearing a black tricorn hat, blue navy jacket, and white breeches. Lieutenant Robert Maynard, Malcolm knew. “What do you want with us?” Malcolm shouted across the gap between the ships.
“We want you, sir!” Maynard shouted back. “And we’ll have you, be it dead or alive, lest it cost us our lives!”
Malcolm smiled grimly and lifted his wine to the other man. “Then damnation to you and your King George, you sniveling puppies!” he shouted. “There will be no quarter given, nor any expected!”
“A fair and proper plan!” Maynard shouted back in agreement with a nod of his head.
Malcolm downed the rest of the wine in one gulp, then tossed the mug into the sea. The Jane was still coming on at an angle to avoid Adventure’s lethal cannons, propelled toward the still-grounded pirate sloop by her oars. Malcolm knew Maynard planned to board them. He stood calmly this time as musket fire erupted from Jane’s decks, the balls whistling around him, one sending splinters flying near his right hand on the railing. One of the crew, Richard Greensail, grunted, slapping at his neck before looking in wonder at his red-streaked palm. The crewman grinned, then fired a musket of his own back toward Jane.
Malcolm turned calmly and glanced at Gibbons. “Bosun, I believe our over-eager representative of King George has just thrown down the gauntlet. Let’s return the favor with iron and lead, shall we?”
“Aye, Captain,” Gibbons said before ordering his men to the gunwales, where they returned fire with pistols and muskets. Several crewmen ran to the swivel-guns mounted along the railings, staring at the bosun expectantly, slow-matches at the ready.
“Fire when ready,” Gibbons told them in a firm voice.
Moments later, the swivel-guns boomed, sending screaming bits of iron, lead, and nails directly into the massed ranks of Maynard’s men. Malcolm watched in grim silence as the lieutenant ducked below the gunwale while around him, sailors fell screaming and writhing as blue-black smoke hung over the two ships like a haze.
Malcolm took a deep breath as the smoke cleared, closing his eyes for a moment as his men cheered, believing they’d won the day—but he knew better. “Make ready to board!” he finally shouted.
“Make ready to board!” William Horton echoed.
The Adventure had finally been lightened enough to float free from the sandbar, and now, with crippled sails and oars, the pirate ship slowly came alongside the devastated remains of the Royal Navy sloop. Malcolm could see only corpses and men screaming in horrible agony along the decks.
“Ten men with me,” Malcolm ordered, turning his eyes to Caesar. He shook his head at the former slave’s fierc
e look. “Not you, my friend. Your job is to care for our guests below. No harm is to come to them, you hear me?”
“But, Captain!” Caesar started to protest.
“That’s an order,” Malcolm growled, focusing his gaze once more on Jane.
“Aye, Captain,” Caesar finally answered reluctantly.
Malcolm paused to look back at his friend. “And Caesar,” he added. “Just tell them you’re a captured slave and had no choice in any of this.”
Caesar stared at him in confusion. “Tell who, Captain?”
“You’ll know when the time comes,” Malcolm grunted, feeling a moment of melancholy come over him as the ships’ hulls gently bumped together. He really was going to miss this seafaring life.
Blackbeard’s boarding party began tossing grappling hooks over the gunwale, securing the two crafts together before pouring onto the deck of the smaller sloop, armed with pistols, cutlasses, and axes. Malcolm followed his men, swinging his long legs over the railing before jumping with a thud to the Jane’s blood-slicked main deck. He could feel his heart thumping wildly in his chest, cheering along with his men even though he knew death was only moments away. None of the rest of his boarding party had noticed yet that there were far fewer bodies lying about than there should have been.
“Help me do this right,” Malcolm whispered to Thache, determined to honor the man by fighting to the last. “Together, we can make these dogs pay for our life.” Malcolm could feel the pirate’s malevolent presence hovering in the background like a sulky child, unable to break through again. Then abruptly, he felt a shift in his host’s attitude—a sort of acceptance and peace that radiated outward. Malcolm smiled in relief, knowing that Edward Thache, the scourge of the seven seas, was with him now to the end. “Good,” Malcolm whispered with a nod. “Then let’s do this together, you and me.”
An enemy sailor suddenly appeared above them on the quarterdeck. “Now, Lieutenant!” he screamed, one quivering finger pointed down at Malcolm.
Past Lives (The Past Lives Chronicles Book 1) Page 7
