by Meg Caddy
‘Will you stay on with us until Hispaniola?’ I asked him. I handed him a bowl of turtle soup, and was gratified to see he actually started eating. His appetite had been in tatters since the rescue.
‘No, boy.’ He still called me ‘boy’, even though he knew I was no such thing. ‘I’ll step off when we reach Cuba. I got friends there.’
‘Who said we’re stopping in Cuba?’ I asked.
He was sickly, but his eyes were still sharp, glittering. They flicked to me now and treated me with a scornful glare. ‘I’m old, not stupid,’ he said.
‘It’s out of our way.’
‘You think the captain will pass up a chance to see his son?’ He shook his head. ‘I know the boy’s being raised by the Cunninghams. But that doesn’t mean you never see him again. You’ll go. For Jack’s sake.’ He slurped the soup. ‘Besides. I won’t last until Hispaniola.’
‘Dad…’
‘You know it’s true. The sea’s no place for a man with one shot leg. It’s a fine ship you’ve stolen for us, Bonny, but it’ll be my coffin if I don’t find a place on land soon.’
I didn’t know what to say. Old Dad finished his soup and handed me the bowl.
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ he said. ‘Sooner or later, every man has to choose where he wants to die.’
‘You choose land?’
‘I choose a bit of comfort. And a few more years, God willing. Don’t you begrudge me that.’
I sighed. ‘I don’t. But I’ll miss you, Dad. There’s no one I’d rather plan a murder with.’
He laughed, winced, then laughed again. ‘Likewise, Bonny. Likewise.’ He reached over and we clasped hands. ‘Stay alive, you hear me? I want to hear about you from all corners of the ocean. Make ’em scared.’
He settled back and I let him alone, knowing he’d be asleep soon. When he started to snore I picked myself up and coaxed a mug of beer away from Richard Corner. Then I went down to the beach to find Isaac and Read.
The two men were working together on the beach, lugging wood to replace some small panels on the William that had been honeycombed by teredo worm. True to form, neither of them said anything much but there was an ease between them.
I walked up the beach to join them. ‘You’re working too hard here, lads.’
‘Someone has to,’ Isaac muttered. He took a swig from the mug, then handed it to Read. ‘How’s Old Dad?’
‘Sleeping. Seems to have some appetite back so…’ I shrugged. ‘But he’s stepping off in Cuba. Probably for the best.’ I rushed on, not wanting to dwell on it. ‘Think we can manage the panelling without him?’
‘I hope so. If we can’t, we’re all going to drown.’
Read snorted. ‘Ever the optimist, Isaac.’
They traded a smile and I felt, suddenly, like an interloper. I had known the two would be kindred spirits but it hadn’t quite occurred to me that there might be more between them.
I fell back a few steps, giving them the option of going on without me. It was Isaac who looked back at me, lifting an eyebrow.
‘Don’t leave us to do all the work, Bonny,’ he said. ‘Just because you’re sleeping with the captain, doesn’t mean you get to shirk.’
We worked through the afternoon. Old shadows and fears were long gone now, replaced with hours of sunlit work and rough jests. It was done with, just another part of our shared past. The ocean was in front of us, and it washed away the lines drawn in the sand.
‘Calico.’
It was dark. We had been sailing for over a week and I had spent every night curled against him, matching my breaths with his. I pressed a kiss against his bare shoulder now. He groaned and tried to roll away from me, but the cot in his cabin was small and I was more awake than he was.
‘Calico,’ I whispered again, snaking my arms about him. ‘Wake up.’
‘You’re killing me, woman.’ His voice was slurred with sleep.
‘Dobbin just spotted Cuba. We’ll be in Havana by dawn.’
‘Wake me at dawn then.’
‘Calico.’ I nipped his ear and he yelped, sitting bolt upright and hitting his head on the roof of the cabin. I cackled and sat up with him. ‘Come and stand on the deck with me.’
He glared and tried to drop back into the cot, but I nudged and prodded him until he relented. It was stuffy below decks but the nights had been cool. He slipped on a coat as he followed me up the companionway and into the clear stillness of the upper deck. I breathed in the stiff air off the water and smiled. The William was a beautiful craft. She had carried us swift and true to Cuba, responsive and easy. Isaac, used to steering the old Ranger, said she was the sweetest vessel he had ever sailed on. I was inclined to agree, though perhaps I was biased. Stolen ships were the easiest to love.
We went to the side and stood leaning on the rail. It was still a strange thing to lace my fingers through Calico’s, right out there on the deck. To let my shoulder lean against his without subterfuge. Sometimes the crew would make fun of us, whistling and calling out, but that seemed to have lost most of its novelty by now. So we could stand in one another’s company, comfortable and quiet.
The lights of Havana greeted us. They winked and waved with each breath of wind. Somewhere among them I knew our son was sleeping. I let the sadness rest in my ribcage for a moment before letting it go. He would have a good life with the Cunninghams. And, as Old Dad said, we could still see him sometimes. Carefully; no more than once or twice a year.
‘What are you thinking?’ Calico asked. He had complained enough in the cabin but when I looked at him his eyes were closed and his head was tipped back. Enjoying the breeze and the sound of the waves against our slender vessel.
God, I loved him.
‘I’m thinking it’s time we started building a fleet,’ I said.
He blinked, startled. ‘A what?’
‘A fleet. Now the business with Barnet is over, we need to make up for lost time. Pirates like Bartholomew Roberts are putting us to shame.’
‘Why don’t we focus on keeping the one ship we actually have?’
‘Sure. But I also want a fleet, Calico.’
He stared at me, helpless, then gave a burst of laughter. ‘God in Heaven, Annie. Is there anything on this ocean you don’t want?’
I smiled. ‘If I think of something, I’ll tell you.’
He took off his coat and dropped it around my shoulders to keep the night chill away. Then he wrapped his arms about me and rested his chin on the top of my head. We fit together well. And we would spend some weeks together in Cuba, just fitting together. We would see our son, talk to the Cunninghams, do right by Old Dad.
When we came back to sea again we would come back with guns and powder and sharpened swords. Taking what we needed and what we wanted. We were the crew of the William. We were Calico Jack’s people.
I wanted the whole ocean to be afraid.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This is a work of historical fiction, and when it comes to Anne Bonny and her lads there is some difficulty sorting the historical from the fiction. There are real and imagined characters in this book, and both real and imagined events. Still, I have done my best to keep my pirates and their enemies aligned with the lifestyles, ideals, personalities, morals (or lack thereof) and bonds that shine through in the historical accounts.
If you would like to know more about Bonny and Read, I would direct you to the first real book that examined their lives and kept them so firmly lodged in the history and mythology of pirates and seafaring: A General History of Pirates by Captain Charles Johnson. While this is the most complete contemporary source we have on Anne and her people, it should be noted that almost every account of her life, including this one, is filled with sensationalism, mysteries, inconsistencies, rumours and outright lies.
I think she’d like it that way.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing this book has made me almost intolerable as a person, but there is a truly ridiculous list of people spanning three
continents who have helped and loved and encouraged me all the same. As usual there’s no way to thank them all. Consider this my best attempt:
To Mum and Dad, for long days and nights of editing, countless cups of tea, and for always being there; and to my brothers, Ben, Danny and Joe, who take such good care of their dorky sister.
To the team at Text Publishing, especially the wonderful Mandy Brett who saw right to the heart of this book and what it needed to be. Thanks as well to Jessica Horrocks, who designed a cover any pirate would be proud to sport, and to Simon Barnard for mapping out Anne’s world.
To Richard Moore, my excellent sensitivity reader for LGBTQ+ representation. Your patience and practical advice have been invaluable.
To the historians and curators who gave so freely of their time: David Cordingly, for his excellent body of works on pirates and for so kindly meeting with me to help with my research for this book; Eric Lavender and the staff at the Powder Magazine in Charleston (bless you for running a two-hour tour for just me and two other people, even in pouring rain); Pieter van der Merwe, the last remaining defence against institutional stupidity (thank you for answering my inane questions about ship toilets); the staff of the Greenwich Maritime Museum, the Pompey Museum of Slavery and Emancipation, and the National Archives in Kew; Christopher Curry and his daughter Chrisselle who told me all about the pirates of Nassau; Danijela Kambaskovic-Schwartz, my honours supervisor; and Mike Lefroy and the crew of the Duyfken, who showed me around their wonderful ship at the very beginning of my research.
Thanks to the numerous taxi drivers, boatmen, sailors, security guards (especially Mister Pinnock), hotel staff and volunteers in Charleston, Nassau and London, who told me their pirate theories and stories, offered local knowledge and advice, and prevented me from getting lost or murdered. And, back home, thanks to the members of SCBWI West and KSP, who take such good care of each other. When the words don’t work it’s amazing to have a strong community at our backs.
To Peter and Pat Felton, who let me drag them all over England in search of ships, recorded countless documentaries, and sent me pages of research and notes; and to Joan and John Caddy for their support and love. Also thanks to my cousins, Jessica and Elinor Caddy: for book crawls, tea and crafternoons. Please do not send me pictures of shirtless pirates.
To Beverly Twomey, my online writing buddy, who let me drag her all around Charleston and shared a boat with me for a week. Thank you for standing guard (and taking photos) while I trespassed on private property. Please stop making pirate puns.
To Kristin Lane, who drove us all around Charleston and Florida, found me old maps, organised our itinerary around my research and shamelessly encouraged my pirate obsession. Your snark and friendship are life-giving. Thanks also to Mama and Papa Lane, Caitlin Lane and Noelle Lane, my American family.
To Amb’r and the team at Hay Street, the staff and girls at the Perth College Boarding House, and to Bek Warnes, Maddy Hermawan and Gemma Goepel.
Finally, to my Dungeons and Dragons party: Bridget, Hope, Michael, Nicholas, Serena; and last but never least, Jenn, my sister-in-arms. No context, no mercy. I love you guys.
If you’ve enjoyed Meg Caddy’s Devil’s Ballast, we think you’ll also like her critically acclaimed debut novel, Waer.
As night fell, something stirred the darkness. Birds shrieked, rising into the air as the peace cracked and fell apart. Flashes of crimson uniform cut the smothering black of the woods. The smell of smoke lifted through the boughs and choked the leaves. A drum beat out a steady pulse as soldiers tore over the dead leaf matter, hacking their way through the web of forest.
The prisoner ran.
When Lowell Sencha finds the strange girl lying as if dead on the riverbank, he is startled to find that she is like them: waer. Human, but able to assume the form of a wolf. The Sencha family’s small community has kept itself sequestered and unnoticed, free from persecution. The arrival of a fellow traveller, and a hunted one at that, threatens their very survival.
Sure enough, the soldiers of the blood-purist Daeman Leldh soon descend on the village searching for her, burning and slaughtering. Lowell and the mysterious stranger are among the few to escape. And now they must find their way to the city of Luthan where, she says, they will find people to help them bring down Daeman Leldh.
If she can persuade them not to kill her.
Read on for a preview of Waer…
Kaebha
Winter was on its way. Cold, hard winds hit the fortress of Caerwyn, perched upon a sheer cliff face and framed by craggy peaks. Narrow strips of flora fringed the river that gnawed at the gorge below Caerwyn. The river flowed fast through the ranges, then opened and slowed as it travelled south-east through the Gwydhan Valley and on to the eastern coast of Oster.
As night fell, something stirred the darkness. Birds shrieked, rising into the air. The peace cracked and fell apart. Flashes of crimson uniform cut the smothering black of the woods. The smell of smoke lifted through the boughs and choked the leaves. A drum beat out a steady pulse as soldiers tore over dead leaf matter, hacking their way through the web of forest.
The prisoner ran.
Branches ripped at her face and clothes. Scratches latticed her pale limbs, and the moon illuminated her in spite of her attempts to keep to the shadows. Behind her, soldiers pounded their way through the mountain forests. Her legs burned. Sweat poured down her face. Her chest was knotted with snarls and whimpers, sounds she could not choke down.
The river surged below her. She reached the ledge; stood there, leaning out over the water. A steep drop. If she jumped here, the river might be deep enough – she might survive the fall, but not what came after. Rapids, waterfalls, rocks.
She looked over her shoulder. Torches glowed through the trees. Her limbs shook, sweat beaded on her brow and stained her clothing. Her skin cooled and became clammy. She edged towards the open space that gaped before her and stood frozen. Torn.
As a branch snapped behind her, she stepped forward, wobbling as her bare, bloodied toes curled over the ledge. A voice halted her. Cold. Familiar.
‘Stop,’ ordered Kaebha.
The prisoner refused to look around. Kaebha’s lip curled. It would be a waste if the wretch jumped. She could still be salvaged.
‘Stop,’ Kaebha said again. ‘Come here. Come back.’
‘I don’t need you,’ she spat.
‘Oh, you do,’ Kaebha replied. ‘You need me, and you need our master.’
‘Your master. Not mine. He was never mine.’
‘And you believe that?’
The river. The shouts of the pursuing soldiers.
‘You would do better to turn yourself in.’ Kaebha’s voice was almost kind.
The prisoner flinched. She shook her head, teetering towards the edge. Kaebha snarled; her quarry bled and swayed. Daeman Leldh had left his marks on her.
Kaebha took a breath, tried again to reason with her. ‘The longer you run, the worse it will be.’ Her mouth twisted like the edge of a knife, hard and lethal. ‘He will break you.’
‘He already has.’ She did not look away from the river. ‘Go, Kaebha. I want nothing more to do with you.’
‘You would never have survived if not for me!’ A spark of anger kindled in Kaebha’s eyes.
The prisoner looked over her shoulder, eyeing the flames nearing her; Leldh’s men were coming, hunting her down.
‘I should have died, then,’ she said.
‘Do not be a fool.’ The anger was gone. Kaebha could control herself. She softened her voice once more, a coaxing note rolling off her tongue like warmed honey. She stretched out a hand. ‘Do not throw your life away. Stay with me.’
The fugitive wavered. If she lingered, Kaebha would win her over. They both knew it.
The prisoner stepped forward, let herself drop through the air, her body twisting into the still night. Kaebha let out a loud curse, jerked away and disappeared into the darkness.
When the young woma
n hit the water, she barely made a splash.
Lowell
I stood at the top of the hill, and let the smells of the Gwydhan Valley wash over me. The rain of the night before. The grass, long enough to brush my knees. Sheep. The faint traces of waerwolves who had passed through recently. The familiar scent of our family earth. Then, stronger, the smell of soap, and clean clothes, and honey. It was unmistakably a young smell; not that of an infant, but not so many years from it.
My brother.
Kemp stood a few paces behind me. He struggled to keep still. I knew the wolf inside him – the pup inside him – was desperate to get out. Kemp had only Shifted a few times in his young life, and it was still a question of instinct at this point. Later, he would learn to Shift at will, and would be able to control the wolf when it emerged. Our mother and father would be glad when he stopped chewing table legs and harrying the sheep.
‘Now?’ he demanded. He hopped from one foot to the other.
‘Not yet.’
‘Lowww –’ He drew my name into a whine. He scratched at his skin, already feeling the prickle of stiff black fur, impatient to break through.
While Kemp was so young, it was important that someone was always with him when he Shifted. Otherwise he might go wild. Forget to Shift back to his human shape. Attack our sheep or our neighbours’ livestock. There were always accidents in the Valley, but fortunately the community had enough experience to take them in stride. One savvy man named Brom had made quite a business breeding rabbits and selling them to local families so we could release them into the wild and let our young chase them down. He was branching out now into pheasants and hopping-mice for the older children.
Someone from our family tried to take Kemp hunting at least twice a week. On this occasion, my father was occupied with the flock, and my mother was at the worship-house honouring the last month of autumn with homage to the deities. So I was left with the pup.
‘Now, Lowell?’
I turned to face Kemp. He favoured our father; short and tubby, with a mop of dark curls and a stubborn chin. He had inherited our father’s restlessness and impatience, also. Particularly his impatience with me.