by Hank Manley
* * *
Warren led Bessie across the open meadow until they were directly behind the building that held Blackbeard. He maneuvered the cart until it faced away from the cell window and then he walked in front of the mule.
Kneeling, he held Conchshell’s snout gently in his hand and looked at his Labrador seriously. “Quiet girl,” he said. “Not a single growl or yip. This is important.”
The gravity of her master’s admonition was not lost on the dog. Conch issued the smallest squeak of understanding and shrank down to the ground.
“Remember, Shelly,” Warren continued. “When I tell you, I want you to go find Mary. You know where we just left her a few minutes ago. She’s still right there. You understand, don’t you?”
Mary! Conch stood quickly to her full height and wagged her tail. The Labrador remembered leaving Mary in the open field across from the front of the jail.
“Not yet, Shelly,” Warren said. “Wait until I tell you.”
The Labrador licked her snout and pawed the ground, anxious to play her part in the adventure.
“Okay, Bessie,” Warren whispered in the mule’s ear. “We’re going to do this real easy.” Stroking the animal’s neck and holding her head firmly in his hand, the young man backed the mule and cart toward the jail window. The wooden axle, well greased by the diligent farmer, barely made a sound as the two wheels rolled slowly in the direction of the rear wall of the jailhouse.
When the cart was only a foot from the window opening, Warren stopped Bessie. “Hold here,” he hissed in the animal’s ear. “That’s a good girl.”
The young man walked around to the rear of the wagon and jumped up to the bed of the little cart. On his tiptoes he held one of the pulley blocks and a small length of heavy rope.
“Captain Teach,” he whispered. “Come to the window.”
“Aye, lad. I’m here.”
“Tie this block to the two cell bars in the middle of the window,” Warren said. “Be quick about it.”
“Arrr. Ye expect ye be strong enough to pull me bars out of the window.”
“Just do it,” Warren admonished. “I’ve got help.”
Warren stepped from the cart bed and leaned down to Conchshell. “Okay, girl,” he said in a low voice. “Go find Mary. No noise. Just go find Mary.”
The Labrador remembered exactly where Mary was crouched in the vacant lot on Tradd Street across from the jail house. The dog happily bounded away to complete her vital mission.
Warren knew he had a few minutes before Mary would act. He lifted the second block out of the cart and carried it to the thick tree growing near the corner of the building. With a short piece of the heavy rope, he securely tied the three-wheel pulley mechanism to the trunk of the tree. To complete the system, Warren fed one end of the long length of rope through an outside pulley wheel and knotted it off.
Warren then threaded the free end of the rope through an end wheel of the pulley which Blackbeard had tied to the bars of the cell. He walked back to the block bound to the tree and fed the rope through the middle wheel. Next he returned the rope to the block at the cell window and weaved it around that middle wheel, then back through the end wheel of the tree block, and finally around the end wheel of the cell block. Warren then finished the rudimentary mechanical apparatus by tying off the end of the rope to the axle of the cart.
Warren had no idea how much force would be required to snatch the bars from the cell window. The building was not new. The construction appeared shoddy. He assumed if any actual engineering calculations had been used in the building of the cell, it would only be designed to keep a human from freeing himself with his hands.
Ol’ Bessie was a game animal, but she wasn’t young. Warren didn’t know how much power she could exert directly on the rope. But he understood the basic physics of a block and tackle arrangement. He knew by the use of the twin three-wheeled blocks that he had multiplied Bessie’s pulling power by a factor of six. Through his ingenious thinking, the young man had amassed a virtual team of half a dozen mules in front of the cart.
“Help! Help,” drifted across the late night sky from Tradd Street. “Fire! Fire!”
Warren looked into the blackness above the jail house and saw an orange flame emerge above the roofline. Conchshell had found Mary. The Labrador’s arrival had alerted the girl to light the brush fire in the vacant lot across the street. Her cries for help were designed to roust the jail keeper Mikey O’Reilly from his slumbers.
The man’s quick response to their visit the night before indicated he was a light sleeper. Warren feared that his presence in the building when the bars ripped from the window might alert the jail keeper and afford him the ability to foil the escape attempt. The two young pirates had agreed that it was imperative to first decoy O’Reilly from the building with the ruse of a fire and the siren call of a woman in distress.
Warren walked to Bessie’s head and gently took hold of the halter. He led the docile mule ahead slowly until the heavy rope tied to the cart pulled through the combined six wheels of the two blocks. Each tiny pulley axle creaked with age, but the rope rolled over the little wooden wheels until it cinched tight between the block anchored to the tree, through the block fastened to the cell bars, and ultimately to the cart.
“Over here!” Mary shouted from the vacant lot. “Over here!”
Warren looked at the flames licking the night above the jail roof. He nodded at the sound of the prearranged signal from Mary that meant Mikey O’Reilly had emerged from the front of the jail building
“Okay, Bessie,” Warren said. “Just give me one good pull on those cell bars.” The young man slapped the old mule roughly on the rump.
Ol’ Bessie lurched ahead with the vigor of a younger animal. Warren had removed two five foot sections of rope to secure the blocks to the tree and the cell bars. The remaining ninety feet of rope, weaved between the two pulley blocks, pulled tight and then stretched until it reached its natural point of elasticity. A loud screech of protest sounded from the straining rope. The mule’s front hooves slid backward on the ground, her traction gone. The cart stopped in place. The cell bars remained unmoved.
“Arrr, lad,” called Blackbeard from inside his cell. “Ye needs to pull harder.”
Warren placed his palm against Bessie’s snout to halt her efforts. “Good try, girl,” he whispered in her ear. “But we need to do better. Let’s back up and try again.”
The boy backed the mule five feet, careful not to roll the wheels of the cart over the slack rope dangling from the axle. “Once more, girl,” he encouraged. “Give it all you have.”
Warren smacked Bessie on the flank with the palm of his hand. “Go!” he yelled. “Go, girl.”
Bessie jumped forward. Her sharp hooves dug into the loose earth and fought for purchase. The loose rope snapped off the ground. The block attached to the tree trunk leaped into the air. A loud squeal of strain and tension was audible all along the mechanical apparatus.
Sounds of ripping and tearing hit Warren’s ears from the jail window. The glorious resonance of material shredding and disintegrating rang in the night.
“One more, laddie,” Blackbeard screamed with joy. “One more pull and ye shall have it.”
Warren stopped Bessie as her hooves began to slid over the dirt. “That’s great, girl,” he said. “You’re doing fine. I only need one more try. You can do it.”
The young man backed the mule again. The pulley system fell limp and quiet with the tension removed.
“Warren!” Mary screamed over the jail house roof. “He’s coming!”
It was the signal Warren had dreaded hearing. Mary had succeeded in luring Mikey O’Reilly from the jail with the brush fire she had started and her cries for help. But now it was apparent the man not been completely fooled. He was on his way around the building, undoubtedly suspicious of
the serendipitous blaze and timely yells for assistance from a beautiful girl on the eve of the day of Blackbeard’s scheduled hanging.
~28~
“It’s now or never, Bessie girl,” Warren implored the old mule. “Please give it your best effort, otherwise . . .” The possibilities were too gruesome to ponder.
Warren smacked the old animal with all his strength. Bessie jumped forward with every ounce of energy remaining in her decrepit legs. The rope snapped off the ground. The block attached to the tree sprang into the night air. The little wheels in the pulleys squeaked as they rolled with the passage of the tightening rope. At the moment of full stretch, the power of the multiple-faceted mechanical device wrenched the bars of the cell loose from their foundations. The two iron struts burst into the air, following the attached flying block.
Mikey O’Reilly rounded the corner of the building in full stride. He slowed only a moment as his eyes took in the completely unexpected sight of Warren and Bessie and the vegetable cart tugging furiously on the bars of the cell window.
“By the very gods above,” he howled. “What have we here?”
In spite of Mikey’s befuddlement at the astonishing proceedings behind the jail, his momentum propelled him forward until he slowed in front of Blackbeard’s cell . . . just as the pulley block descended from its arc through the air.
The heavy wooden device cracked Mikey O’Reilly in the temple. One of the two iron bars dislodged from the cell window banged off his head. The thin skin covering his skull split open and blood burst from the point of impact. The jail keeper’s knees wobbled, pinpoints of light exploded behind his eyes, and Mikey spiraled to the ground.
The spirited jailer shook his head to regain his focus. He comprehended that a jail break was in progress, and he knew his job, and perhaps his own freedom, was in jeopardy if the attempt was successful. The situation was particularly exacerbated by the importance of the inmate. The townspeople had been especially delighted with their capture of the famous, tyrannical pirate. They could be expected to exhibit the same amount of negative enthusiasm against the man responsible for the loss of their prized captive.
Mikey struggled to clear his head. He heaved to one knee and placed a hand on his thigh to push to his feet. The effort was unsuccessful.
Blackbeard plunged out of the cell opening and landed with all his bulk on Mikey O’Reilly’s tottering frame.
“In heaven’s name . . .” Mikey grumbled as he was driven into the dirt for the second time.
Warren witnessed the fortuitous events with bulging eyes of wonder. Mary’s undisguised warning that the jail keeper was approaching had scared him. He knew he was not strong enough to ward off the larger man. But, flight was not a possibility. He was committed to freeing Blackbeard, and he refused to abandon his mission before it was fulfilled.
Warren dove under the vegetable cart and untied the rope from the axle. He scrambled back to Bessie’s side and rubbed her neck briefly. “You’re free, girl,” he said kindly. “Go on home and get a good night’s sleep. You’ve earned it. You know the way.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, the old mule broke into a trot, pulling the two-wheel cart behind her. Her head was pointed exactly in the direction of the farmer’s lean-to home.
* * *
Blackbeard untangled himself from Mikey O’Reilly’s prone body. He looked briefly at Warren as the young man sent Ol’ Bessie on her way home.
“That was a brave thing ye did for thy captain,” he said. “I’ll not forget thy kindness.”
“It was a debt I felt I owed you from the Wells,” Warren said simply. “And I need you to get me to Nassau. If I ever want to see my mother and father again, I must return there.”
“Aye, laddie,” Blackbeard said. “On my honor I vouch ye shall see Nassau soon. No man will stop me from fulfilling that promise. Ye saved me from the gallows.”
Mikey O’Reilly groaned once and rolled over in the dirt. He pressed his palm to his temple. The hand came away smeared with blood. “Me head,” he whimpered. “Me noggin be split like a ripe melon.”
Warren looked at the wounded jail keeper and then swung his gaze to Blackbeard. “What should we do with him?” he asked. “We need to get away from Charles Town right now. We can’t allow him to sound an alarm, especially with people coming out of their houses to see about the fire in front.”
“There be a fire?” Blackbeard asked. “Aye, I can smell it now. Who set the fire?”
“Mary set it,” Warren said. “I thought it would keep the jailer busy while we were breaking the bars out of the cell window.”
“Mary?” Blackbeard asked. “Who be Mary?”
“You’ll see,” Warren said. “Come on. There’s a single masted little sloop tied at the wharf. She looks fast. Let’s get aboard and be under way for Nassau.”
“That be an excellent idea, laddie,” Blackbeard said. Turning to Mikey O’Reilly, the fearsome pirate lifted the wooden block containing the three pulley wheels. “I vouch ye have had enough of this piece of sail rigging,” he said. “But we can’t be having ye run about and warn the citizens of Charles Town that their prize pirate has escaped.”
Captain Teach smacked Mikey O’Reilly on the head with the block. The jail keeper’s eyes rolled up under his lids and he toppled forward on his face, unconscious before his body touched the ground.
Warren led Blackbeard along the meadow behind Tradd Street, past the alleyway where he and Mary had hidden from Mikey the previous night. They continued toward Meeting Street to the prearranged location the young man had selected during his walk with Mary that afternoon.
Conchshell heard her master approaching before Mary was aware of the sound of footsteps and heavy breathing from the fleeing pirates.
“Shelly girl,” Warren called as he skidded to a stop. “Good girl. Good girl.”
The Labrador wagged her tail vigorously and jumped on Warren’s chest with her front paws to display her happiness. Her tongue lapped joyful at her master’s cheek.
Mary looked at the unabashed emotional display of affection between Warren and his dog. A brief pang of jealousy grazed her heart. Why didn’t the young man embrace me, she wondered? Wasn’t he happy to see me? Didn’t I do a good job setting the fire and calling the jailer out of the building? Is he too inexperienced to understand . . .?
“Who be this comely wench?” Blackbeard asked with a broad smile on his face. “Have thee been busy in Charles Town while I was taking me meals at the governor’s expense?”
Warren shot Blackbeard an angry look. He lifted Conchshell’s paws from his chest and dropped them to the ground. Without hesitation he walked to Mary’s side and protectively put his arm around her slender waist.
“This is Mary, and she’s no wench,” he said defiantly.
“Mary?” Blackbeard repeated as he narrowed his gaze and studied the young woman’s face. “By the heavens above if ye don’t look like me shipmate Marty Read of the Queen Anne’s Revenge.”
“One and the same, captain,” Mary said. “I’ve been hiding me true identity to serve aboard thy ship.”
“A wench . . . err, a young woman aboard me ship all this time,” Blackbeard said, carefully correcting himself after glancing at Warren’s stern visage. “And ye be such a brave fighter. For the first time in me life I have no words.”
Warren took Mary’s hand. “We can discuss this later,” he said. “I suggest we get on that sloop and sail away from Charles Town before the jail keeper wakes up and alerts the entire town.”
“Arrr,” Blackbeard growled as he stepped quickly to catch up with Mary and Warren and Shelly as the youthful triumvirate dashed up Meeting Street toward the town pier.
~29~
Dawn was only three hours distant. The wharf was deserted. Several sailing vessels and a smattering of fishing boats were tied to
the iron bollards bolted into the wooden planking that formed the long pier.
Blackbeard spotted the single-masted sloop tied to the dock and headed directly for the sleek vessel.
“By her looks, she appears to have speed,” he commented. “Ye made a good choice, lad.”
“I’ll untie the lines,” Warren volunteered. “You two know more about sailing one of these boats than I do. Get aboard and tell me when to cast off. Shelly girl, you get on board, too.”
“Aye,” the pirate captain agreed. “Marty . . . Mary, ye haul the main sheet and be prompt about it. With the night breeze blowing from the land, the sail will fetch up and we’ll move smartly to sea.”
“Cast off the bow?” Warren called in a deep whisper.
“Aye, lad. Cast off the bow and then the stern. Hold the spring line until last.”
Warren sprinted to the bow of the sloop, untied the line from the bollard, and threw it over the railing of the boat. Without hesitation he ran to the stern and repeated the process.
Mary tugged on the rope that raised the single sail. With each haul of the line, a long spar stretching aft and upward from the mast lifted the main sheet. The minimal breeze immediately caught the partially hoisted sail, and the sloop nudged into motion.
“Let her strain against the spring line,” Blackbeard yelled. “When she recoils back against the dock, uncleat the rope and jump aboard.”
Mary turned from her hauling and looked at Warren. The young man was poised by the bollard holding the spring line. Wind bulged the sail. The sloop was tight against the one remaining line. There would only be a single moment’s opportunity for Warren to jump aboard. If he missed, he would land in the water. There was no possibility Blackbeard could return to the pier. Maneuvering a sailing vessel in tight quarters was extremely difficult.
Warren had to make the jump! Mary couldn’t imagine sailing off without the young man who had saved her from the militia men of Charles Town and then lovingly – was that how she felt about his ministrations, lovingly? – stitched her wound, and cleverly figured out how to rescue Blackbeard so they could return to Nassau.