Blackbeard- The Birth of America

by Samuel Marquis

  “Aye, and look at you now, you lummox. You’re the bloody King of Nassau. A little more humility like that and you’ll replace that scupperlout King George.”

  Hornigold smiled, which was a rarity. “Okay, that was funny. You can fill me in later. I’m going to take a fucking nap.”

  They parted company. Thache headed down Bay Street towards the harbor. By the time he got there, the Mary Anne and the Anne Galley captained by Bellamy’s former quartermaster, Richard Noland, limped into the harbor and dropped anchor. Both vessels were battered and he wondered if they had been in a battle or perhaps suffered through a bad storm. He also noted that they were drastically undermanned.

  He studied the two ship crews as they lowered a pair of longboats into the water. A crowd of onlookers had gathered along the beach at the water’s edge and they watched in silence along with him as the two boats rowed to shore. In the lead boat, Williams brought the small craft up to where Thache stood as a mob of sailors waded into the water and crowded around the longboat. Many of the pirates knew Williams and his crewmen by name and they instantly plied the group with questions. “From whence had they come, what had happened to their vessels, and where in the world was the notorious Black Sam Bellamy?”

  “Leave them be, you bilge-sucking swabs!” snapped Thache, stepping into the fray. “Can’t you see they’ve been to hell and back! At least let them enjoy an ale at the tavern before you bombard them with questions!”

  To his surprise, the swarthy pirates obeyed his command and moved in to help the men from the boats. Ten minutes later, Thache was seated at a table at the Blue Parrot drinking an ale with Williams, Richard Noland, and Charles Vane, who had awoken from an afternoon nap and staggered onto the scene.

  “What the hell happened, Paul?” asked Thache when the four of them were seated at a corner table with a crowd of curious, lubricated seamen gathered around them, hanging on every word.

  It took Williams and Noland a full half hour to relate the tragic news. Black Sam Bellamy was no more, they said in a somber voice. The Whydah had been split apart by a terrible gale offshore of Cape Cod and Bellamy and most of the crew had drowned. He recited the names of two dozen of the most noteworthy that had been lost to the storm, several of whom Thache had known personally from their time together last spring and summer in Cuba and Hispaniola. The nine survivors were said to be awaiting trial in Boston with little chance of acquittal. Following the disaster, the governors of Massachusetts and Rhode Island had responded to the invasion of pirates in their colonies by outfitting several privateers to hunt Williams down, forcing the pirates out of New England waters. Williams had continued plundering vessels as he worked his way down the coasts of New Jersey, Delaware, and the Carolinas, pilfering enough wine and provisions to keep his men alive—but he had been harried by constant pursuit. Through death and desertion, his company was down to just over thirty men. Noland, with whom he had reunited along the way, had some twenty men aboard. Of the nearly one hundred and thirty sea rovers who had shipped north from the Bahamas with Bellamy early last spring, only slightly over fifty remained.

  “Damn them for villains!” cursed Blackbeard, his voice a low growl like a wild animal despite the unabashedly human tears in his eyes. “Damn them for hunting us down like dogs and taking our friends away from us!”

  “We should kill them—kill them all—goddamnit!” snarled Charles Vane, his face crimsoning and veins in his neck bulging with anger.

  “Aye, Black Sam was a good mate!” said one of the men gathered around the battered wooden table. “The Prince of Pirates, he was!”

  “Aye!” agreed Williams and he was echoed by a dozen angry pirate throats. “But I wish we hadn’t gone so far north. We should have waited until May.”

  “Avast, Paul, avast,” said Thache in an assuaging voice. “You can’t blame yourself. It’s Mother Nature and the pious fools in Boston that are to blame for the disastrous state of affairs. I promise you one thing, they’re going to pay for this. Damn them for the villains they be!”

  Vane tossed back his ale and nodded vigorously. “I can’t believe they’re going to execute the survivors! This can’t be allowed to happen! We should sail a fleet up north, attack Boston, and break them out of fucking prison! We could do it, you know!”

  Cries for vengeance went up from the assembled crowd around the table. Thache knew it was nothing but a pipe dream. He shook his head in anger and disgust at the injustice of it all. In his eyes, there were few men in the world like Black Sam. The man was a true hero, and so were his crewmen. Muskets should be fired in the air for all of them.

  Feeling a sudden fit of fury, he stood up from his chair, his dark eyes blazing. The men crowded around the table backed up fractionally.

  “If those Boston men see fit to hang them,” he roared with the ferocity of a Puritan minister at a pulpit, “I will exact a terrible revenge upon the people of New England. Their ships will be plundered and burned such as the world has never seen, and their captains will live in mortal fear whenever they take to the sea. That is my promise to all ye here today. Aye verily, when I get through with them, they are going to wish they had never been born!”

  With that, he stormed out of the Blue Parrot Tavern, walked a mile down the beach, and kneeled down in the soft sand beneath the refurbished fort. There he said a short prayer for his friend and comrade-in-arms—whose Robin-Hood-like vision of the world he had adopted as his own—and then he wept as he had not wept since he was a little boy.

  For despite their short time together, Black Sam Bellamy had truly been like a brother to him.

  CHAPTER 18

  STRAITS OF FLORIDA

  SEPTEMBER 2, 1717

  “THAT’S A SPANISH MAN-OF-WAR. She’s out of our class—there’s no way we can take her,” warned Ishmael Hanks. “If you do, you’ll kill us all, and that’s the Lord’s truth.”

  Captain Stede Bonnet—who had ludicrously insisted his crew call him Captain Edwards to conceal his identity only to be discovered by a Barbados merchantman off the Carolina coast—peered through his telescope. For the past four months at sea, he and his crew had taken countless prizes and not shied away from anything, and now his quartermaster, gunner, bosun, and sailing master were all arguing with him and instructing him to cower before the enemy. Why the ship calmly parting through the waters before them looked like nothing but a plump Spanish merchant vessel ready to be plundered of silver and gold.

  “I disagree, Mr. Hanks,” he retorted. “I think she’s nothing but an overstuffed merchantman and we can take her without a fight. Indeed, that is precisely what we’re going to do.”

  His officers just stared at him incomprehensibly, which made him even angrier. He had been at loggerheads with them for two straight months now and was growing increasingly irritated by their snide and mutinous mutterings when his back was turned. But the situation had grown even more dire during the last fortnight. Now his officers and even some of the crewmen were openly challenging him and expressing their contempt for his lack of experience as a seaman. His quartermaster, Ishmael Hanks, was the only officer who did not show him flagrant disrespect or openly challenge him, but Bonnet could tell that even he was close to crossing the line and joining the dissenters. Though the Revenge had met with success on the Virginia capes and up north along the New York coast— taking the Anne and Young of Scotland, the Endeavor of Bristol, the Turbet of Barbados, and a pair of prizes off Charles Town—the crew whispered that it had been in spite of, not because of, his leadership.

  He despised himself for allowing the situation to verge on the cusp of mutiny. But at least he knew the source of the problem. The truth was that he still had not mastered the art of being a sea captain and was, therefore, unable to win the men’s trust and loyalty. Time and again during the course of their piratical journey northward, he had been obliged to yield the decision-making to others due to his lack of knowledge in maritime affairs, and consequently, his hold on the captaincy of his sloo
p-of-war was growing tenuous.

  The only reason his officers and crew hadn’t marooned him was because he owned the Revenge and was paying the wages of the officers and crew. On most pirate ships, the position of captain was voted on by the volunteer members of the crew not pressed into service, and his authority was only absolute during a pursuit, in time of boarding or battle, or during a storm. The captain and key officers could be stripped of their command at any time through a simple majority vote. But the unprecedented nature of the arrangement onboard the Revenge of the salaried crew and Bonnet’s sole ownership of the ship blurred the line between sea rover and worker-for-hire, which was the only thing at the moment that was saving him.

  “Captain, you must listen to me,” implored Hanks. “That ship off our starboard beam is no merchant vessel. I know she hasn’t shown us her guns yet, but she doesn’t need to. She’s a Spanish man-of-war all right, most likely sent here from Cuba to patrol the nearby wrecks and run off English marauders.”

  Bonnet continued to peer through his spyglass. “You don’t know that, Mr. Hanks. So I suggest you run the black flag and bring the Revenge in closer so we can discern their intentions.”

  “And if she opens fire on us?”

  “Then we’ll sink her to the bottom of the sea.”

  “Captain, please don’t do this!” pleaded the bosun Ignatius Pell. “We already know she flies Spanish colors. If she be a man-of-war bristling with cannon, we’ll never get out of these straits alive.”

  “Oh avast, you cowardly whelps—we’re taking this ship. Now throw up the black flag and that’s a direct order from your captain!”

  “Now just hold on,” said Hanks, his face purpling with barely suppressed indignation. “You need to listen to me, damn you. I’ve stood by you when no one else has so you hear me out. What you’re doing here is a bad decision, and once you’ve made it, there’s no turning back. Do you understand that?”

  “Of course I do. I’m the one giving the bloody orders, not you Mr. Hanks.”

  “Aye, that be the way she be. All I can say then is may the Lord have mercy on your soul if any of these good men should die here today.”

  “Duly noted, Mr. Hanks. Now throw up the damned flag, make all sail, and close on that blasted ship before she gets away.” He picked up the speaking trumpet and lifted it to his mouth. “Hands to quarters! Hands to quarters!”

  With the decision made, the officers and crew shuffled about the deck to battle stations. For a moment, the spirits on board seemed to rise as the Jolly Roger was hoisted to the top of the mast and the guns were run out. High above the deck of the Revenge, the new black flag caught the wind. A white skull above a horizontal long bone between a heart and a dagger, set against a black field, had been Bonnet’s choice, and after four months of piracy the merchant ship captains of the Atlantic seaboard had become painfully familiar with it. He also had a dark blood-red flag to signify that no quarter would be given, but he had yet to fly it. All the same, he liked the Jolly Roger the best.

  Bonnet was shocked when the Spanish vessel also ran out her guns. He had hoped that the sight of his black flag and bristling cannons at his gunwales would once again prove intimidating enough for his prey to surrender without a fight. But today that would not be the case. Now that they were closing on the vessel, he could see that that she was indeed a man-of-war. He gulped as he took in the dark, swarthy faces of the Spaniards and began to count the number of cannons. Suddenly, the vessel didn’t look like a fat merchant ship waiting to be plundered like a lamb before the slaughter.

  “Damn you, Bonnet! She be nearly thirty guns!” shouted his master gunner.

  “What the hell? We have no business with her!” shouted another.

  “Clap on the wind and get the Revenge out of here! The guns of the enemy be too strong!” rejoindered a third.

  Taking the counsel of the officers and crew, the helmsman began to turn the wheel hard to port and steer away from the Spanish vessel.

  “Damnit man, what are you doing?” cried Bonnet, jerking the wheel hard to starboard and correcting the course so that they were once again heading directly towards the Spanish man-of-war. He drew his cutlass and raised it above his head.

  “Make clear and ready for engagement!”

  But Hanks and Ignatius Pell just stood there shaking their heads, their faces composed in expressions of disbelief. He turned his gaze to the master gunner and his gun crew loading the four- and six-pounders. The gunner’s mate and a loader scowled at him. It was plain that everyone but him believed that engaging the Spaniard would prove a foolish and most likely suicidal mission. There was another shout of protest from the helmsman, but Bonnet overruled him too.

  The Revenge closed in on the man-of-war. Bonnet waited to give the order to fire. He wanted to wait until the last second so they could come alongside her, do severe damage to her masts and rigging, and thereby cripple her into submission.

  But before he gave the order, the Spanish cannons erupted with a broadside into the Revenge. The impact rocked every timber of the ship and instantly sent men belowdecks and diving for cover. With his vessel strafed with grape shot and suddenly enveloped in smoke and splinters of wood, Bonnet was forced to duck down low on the deck and make himself small. Squinting through the smoke and flying timber, he saw Hanks shouting in his direction, but the deafening roar of cannon fire on both sides swallowed his words. The air was suddenly hot like a bonfire and carried the acrid stench of gunpowder. The breath of flame and burning ashes stung his eyes.

  Again the cannons thundered, the explosive discharges pounding inside his skull and forcing him to curl up on the quarterdeck and cover his ears. The gun crew placed the cannon fire so the big guns went off in succession, raking the Spanish ship’s three vulnerable mastheads and her larboard gunrail as they passed. But the Spaniards delivered as good as they got, and the deck of the Revenge sustained massive damage from a second volley. Suddenly, he realized he had been hit as he felt a painful burning sensation in his head and upper chest.

  He felt along his head. Blood seeped from a projectile wound.

  The Revenge’s four- and six-pounders unloaded again, the big guns shaking from the recoil. Shuddering from the tremors and ear-splitting roar of the cannons on both sides, he rolled onto his side and looked out across the deck, taking in the gruesome scene. Already as many as two dozen corpses littered the bloodied and battered fore and aft decks. Some were slumped over cannons at their gun stations, others lay peacefully amid a tangle of rigging and dislodged detritus, still others were nothing more than limbless torsos or decapitated heads pierced by cannon balls, grape shot, and huge splinters of wood. A score of wounded lay twitching and crawling for cover, like worms wriggling through the grass. There was no escaping it: he had blundered badly by engaging a far more powerful ship.

  Those that had survived the broadside fired again at the Spanish, but the enemy vessel had turned onto the stern of the Revenge. The sloop was most vulnerable when fired upon her aft or stern, as gunpowder was stored in a compartment in her belly. A well-placed shot from stern to bow could easily ignite the gunpowder stores, blowing the ship to kingdom come in a fiery conflagration.

  Still lying on quarterdeck, Bonnet saw the flash of the Spanish guns as they fired again, and he heard the crash of glass as his aft cabin windows shattered. He crab-scuttled his way to the protective cover of the larboard bulwark as bar shot and chain shot, musket balls, and scraps of metal from the man-of-war’s two stern chasers rained down upon them. As the pirates moved from under cover, another, louder report broke the air. A powerful hail of debris and small shot tore through rigging and canvas, bringing down part of the topsail yard and crushing a pair of seamen when it toppled onto the deck.

  “We’re not making another pass! Take us out of range and get us the hell out of here!” he heard Hanks shout to the helmsman, who had ducked down and was steering the ship on his knees.

  Crushed and defeated, disgusted with his own hu
bris and stupidity, Bonnet offered no objection.

  “We’d better pray the wind stays with us and they don’t rake us again, or we’ll lose our canvas and we’re done for!” shouted Ignatius Pell.

  “What…what’s the damage?” mumbled Bonnet.

  Hanks, Pell, and the other two remaining officers ignored him. He heard a shuffle of feet, the shouting of the gun crew.

  “Damnit, they’re comin’ about!” cried Hanks.

  “We’re fish in a barrel!” lamented Pell. “I need to get someone topside! The mainsail’s tore up but holding, but we’ve got to get more canvas on that jib!”

  As he dashed off, the deck came under fire again. Bonnet felt the wood beneath him seem to pulse and swell like a living thing as the hot shot passed between him and the keel. The Revenge’s decks were awash with blood; the pitiful screams of the wounded and dying filled the air. Thankfully, the ship’s gunpowder magazine didn’t ignite, but the shot tore through not only the main deck and quarterdeck but belowdecks, tearing through bodies and bulkheads. Blood streamed into his eyes, and he again felt the splinter of wood that was lodged into his head. His chest and right arm throbbed with agony, too, and he realized that he had sustained three separate wounds. He rubbed his head again, looked at the deep red blood covering his hand, and collapsed unconscious.

  ***

  When he awoke, he found himself lying in bed in his battle-scarred great cabin. The floor was littered with shards of glass, splinters of wood, and shredded books. Blood-soaked bandages covered his head and chest, and his right arm was in a sling. His bony fingers touched the stitches freshly sewn into his scalp. He wondered how the Revenge had escaped and how long he had been unconscious. He tried to sit upright in the bed but lacked the strength.

  It was then he heard a voice: Hanks.

  The quartermaster laid it out plainly for him. By going forward with the ill-advised battle with the Spaniard, he had deeply wronged his crew and no longer had any standing whatsoever with them as captain until they reached port. A commander worth his weight in salt, Hanks patiently explained, knew better than to engage a ship far more powerful than his own, and could tell a lumbering merchant ship from a deadly man-of-war. Bonnet, the quartermaster said pointedly, completely lacked these skills. Through his own pride, weakness, and incompetence, he had allowed the Revenge to engage in a full-fledged fight with a superior Spanish warship. As a result, more than half his crew—over forty men—were dead or wounded, and Bonnet himself had suffered a severe injury that might ultimately cost him his life.