Edward was one of the few on his feet, but not by choice. He needed to keep that look of contempt, that anger, directed away from him, so he stood on shaking legs next to the helm, which Herbert now manned.
After Edward had killed John and he and Herbert disposed of the body, they'd gone above deck and into the storm. Grace had put Herbert in charge, and he filled the role as masterfully as he could under the circumstances. He shouted commands, held fast to the ship's wheel as wind and water tested his grip and endurance both, and guided the ship out of the worst of it.
As he did so, Edward was busy himself. He stayed as far from the quarterdeck as he could, as far from Grace's watchful eye as he could, and he did the one thing he seemed skilled at: he killed.
When the waves surged over the sides of the ship, and even the hardiest seaman's legs could have given out, he struck. It was so effortless; all he needed was a well-timed push. So easy to kill them. So easy, it was like breathing to him.
And it was there that Edward felt it again. The floating feeling of freedom. The same feeling when he was so far drowned into a bottle, he felt nothing else. The same feeling when he was so far beyond exhaustion, his body was moving on its own.
He was no longer in that storm, no longer subject to the whims of the wind and waves. He had become the storm, and the sea. And the sea called for new visitors.
Edward threw at least four overboard in the storm. He lost count at some point because he didn't care for the lives he was expending, so it could have been more.
And judging by Grace's anger and disgust now that the storm had ended, she noticed the missing men amongst the crowd on deck.
"John," he heard Grace mutter under her breath. She was gripping the railing of the quarterdeck so hard her knuckles were white. She turned her rage in Herbert and Edward's direction, and he could feel his heart skip a beat. "Where's John?"
Edward just looked at her for a moment. His throat seized, and he no longer had that feeling of floating to help him. Whatever he drank to bring it on, it had left his body long ago with sweat.
"He's not here, and you were the last ones with him," she continued. "Where is he?"
Edward cleared his throat. It was just as Herbert had predicted. "I'm not the boy's keeper. How should I know?"
From Grace's expression, that was not the right answer. She turned her eyes towards Herbert and pointed at him. "My quarters. Now!" Grace turned to leave, the sight of her back brooking no refusal.
Herbert glanced over his shoulder, giving Edward a concerned look before heading to the quarterdeck ladder. Another crewmate took over the helm as Edward helped bring Herbert's wheelchair down to the weather deck and then down to the captain's cabin. There was no opportunity to talk with Herbert, no chance to go over the story again and ensure they were consistent.
Herbert went into the cabin, and Grace closed the door behind him. Edward stayed nearby and waited for whatever was going to happen.
Edward waited and paced and waited some more. He kept a tight grip on his cutlass, though he wasn't sure what good it would do. As he'd surmised before, if he killed their captain, the crew of the Black Blood would still be there to get revenge. They were on the open sea; there was no escape in the wooden box they'd stepped into. But Edward refused to lie down and die if it came to that. He would fight, and he would die. He would not let another choose what would happen to him, even his death.
A thought came to Edward as he waited, a way to avoid or at the very least postpone their deaths.
Edward's father, Calico Jack, could have killed him, could have killed all of them in that tavern weeks ago. Edward and Herbert had guessed that Calico Jack wanted Edward to kill him in some kind of test, just as the unlocking of the ship was a test.
If Edward told Grace who he was, there was a chance that she would keep them alive, at least long enough to bring them to her master. He looked at the ring, still adorning his left hand, simultaneously a threat and a marker of his connection to Calico Jack. If he needed to, it could prove who he was.
The noise of Grace's cabin door opening brought Edward out of his reverie. His hand went to his cutlass, but when he saw Herbert unharmed and under no immediate threat from Grace, he lowered his hand.
Herbert's face was forlorn, wearing a strange look of guilt or regret as he looked up at Edward from his chair. Despite his life and limb being intact, something unpleasant happened during their discussion, and it set Edward on edge more than he had already been.
"You," Grace called. "Inside."
After one final look at Herbert and a deep but quiet breath, Edward entered Grace's cabin, and she closed the door behind him.
Edward sat down in the chair across from Grace's and waited for her to sit. The anger that had been there was now gone, and she was emotionless as she stared at him.
"What happened ta John?" she asked.
Edward was silent for a moment. He had foolishly thought about everything but how to answer her questions. He chose to be blunt. "We lost a few to the storm. He's probably dead."
Grace's jaw clenched. "He went down ta fetch ye and never came back. You two did." Grace paused to let her words sink in. "What happened ta John?" she repeated.
"After he found us, we went straight above deck," Edward said. "I thought he was right behind us."
Grace tapped her finger on her desk. Her body was tense, each muscle taut and ready to snap like a snake. She didn't seem to care about any of the other crewmates who lost their lives at Edward's hands. She was only asking about John. That meant at least that she hadn't seen him throwing people overboard.
"I was watching for him. He never came back to the weather deck." Her expression changed. Her jaw softened, and she looked away from Edward.
"It was a storm. You probably just missed him." Grace didn't respond to Edward's comment. She just had the same faraway look now as she gazed at nothing. "Why are you only concerned about John? He was nice to my brother and me when no one else was, and I would be saddened to lose him as well, but from what I saw, we lost a few crewmates."
Grace turned to look at Edward again. "John's different."
She seemed content to leave it at that, but Edward needed to keep the conversation away from him and Herbert being suspect. "Different… how?"
Grace stared into Edward's eyes for a moment, and then she let out a sigh. "I told yer brother, I suppose I may'swell tell you, else ye'll hear it from him." She shifted in her chair, relaxing a bit, and her expression turning sorrowful. "John wus me son," she said.
"Your son?" Edward blurted out.
Edward's heart seized in his chest. Killing several of her crewmates was wrong enough. She killed one herself since they've been there. Killing her son was another matter entirely. He wasn't sure he could use his real name to forestall his death if she concluded that they had killed John.
"Aye," Grace said, long and drawn out.
After a moment of silence, she reached into the drawer of her desk and pulled out the liquor from before. She poured only for herself this time and downed the drink in one shot. There was no seeking pleasure in that drink, as Edward knew all too well. She wanted the numbness that it brought.
"Pirates came to me village when I was not twelve, maybe fourteen," she said. "I remember the bodies piled up in a ditch, all they owned stripped. Even the rich family wasn't safe." Grace took another drink, this time slower, and then she looked at Edward again. "Have ye ever been near a house set afire when the people are trapped inside?" Edward shook his head. "At first smells like nothing more than a roast. Then you smell the hair. Smells like shit. Reminds you what's burning, and you never forget that smell."
Edward sat in silence. He could already tell where the story was headed, trace the inevitable path that led a young child to have a son not much younger than herself, and a life of piracy, and a hardness born of experience.
He began to feel sick at his killing John, presumably her only son. Beneath the anger and now her strange façade of calm, he could tell
that she loved John. It may have been from afar, but she still loved him. And Edward had killed him.
Grace continued. "I envied the pirates. They killed everyone I cared about, but I envied them for what they did."
"What?" Edward asked, perplexed.
"They made everyone equal," she replied. "Rich, poor, everyone was thrown in tha same hole when the iron took their lives." Grace swirled her cup before downing the last bit of drink. "I wanted that control." She took another moment and seemed to regain focus. "I wasn't poor, wasn't rich neither, but I was smart. I knew what was goin' ta happen ta the girls they didn't kill. So, I figured out who the captain was and… I made sure that he wanted my exclusive attention. The other girls weren't so smart. The men took their turns before discarding 'em, but the captain kept me for himself."
Edward had guessed the story already, but Grace's mention of the captain turned something in his mind.
"Jack musta saw something in me worth keepin'. Then, after I had John, and he found out, he made me a permanent crewmate." Grace shook her head as she bit her lip. "He'll not be pleased about this. Not one bit."
Edward felt crushed under a sudden weight, and his vision went blurry.
John had been Edward's half-brother, and Edward had killed him.
'I heard what you were saying about Calico Jack, about him being your father, about how you're going to kill him. Edward, I'm your—'
John had been about to tell him. It was also not so much a secret that John held some hatred for Calico Jack. John probably would have told Edward that he was on his side, and Edward killed him before he could get the words out. If only Edward had waited, if only he had trusted the young man a bit more…
"Ya look like yer about ta wretch on me table," Grace commented, bringing Edward back to the here and now.
"Just exhausted," he sputtered out.
"Go on, then, we're done 'ere."
Edward rose from his seat and left without looking back or saying another word. He closed the door behind him, ignoring Herbert's questions and calls. He rushed up to the weather deck, where the crew were just now beginning to start repairs on the ship, and he vomited over the side.
He was shaking, his head ached, and he felt his world closing in again. The trembling of his hand returned in full force, as though it had never left him. Images of the dead, those he'd killed and those who had died because of him, flashed in his head, and there was a new face added amongst them.
He slumped down to the deck and reached for the flask in his pocket.
15. Look Into My Eyes
The night was eerily still and calm. The winds over the sea had abated, and the water was quiet save for the occasional breeze creating a light chop. Thick clouds off in the distance hid the moon from view. Somewhere, far away, a storm had stolen the winds away from this island and left it in darkness.
The clouds obscured God's eye, and the earth and sea lost his protection. There were only devils in the sea this night.
These devils knew nothing of fear, or hate, or pain. The harsh cold of the seawater did not sap their strength as it might have for other men, and it did not hamper their movement. The sea they moved through showed the barest hint that they were there, only the slightest ripple extended from their heads as they waded closer and closer to their quarry.
A tremendous wooden beast loomed in the distance in front of them, stilled by the serene sea it called its home. Though the beast was not alive, those moving around on it were. The bellows of laughter and the hollow boom of boots against the beast's frame cut through the silence of the night.
The leader of the devils, with eyes touched by silver that was not silver, guided his minions to the beast's side. Those aboard the beast had not noticed the ripples in the waves. Their ears failed to hear the subtle drip of water cascading off clothes and back to the sea as the devils climbed up the sides of the beast. Without God's eye, they were blind to the enemy in front of them.
The leader had watched his minions the day before, had seen how they had been defeated. With his superior eyesight, granted him by one of the fingers of Midas, he knew how the wicked creatures of the light wrested control over his minions from him. And though he knew not a way to counteract it, he knew how it was done, and that was all he needed for his dark plan to succeed.
He and his minions boarded the beast, covered by the dark of the night and their dark clothing. One after the other, each of his men captured those who called the beast home, locking their arms and covering their mouths to stop their cries and their means of disabling his control.
After they had secured the beast's back, he went over to each man they'd captured. They squirmed and fought, but his minions were stronger, and so there was no escape. He gripped their shoulders, staring into their eyes, whispered the secret words he had learned over time, casting his spell over their mind to make them his.
Some fought, their minds stronger than others, but even the strongest were no match for his power. He had learned the secret ways long ago, practiced on many minds, and each one fell to him in the end.
All but one. The one who had given him his eyes. The one who had given him his new name and had let him loose on this island. That one had his own power, his own eyes that the fewest of the few possessed, that allowed him to resist. No, that allowed him to conquer. His blood was the blood of kings, and no man could overcome it.
One after the other, the men fell asleep. They would awaken later and serve a higher purpose than they had before.
Something unexpected stopped the leader of the devils from his work. A door opened to the beast's innards, and a young woman, two men—one holding a fiddle—and a wolf stepped out.
There was a silent moment where the three figures glanced across the ship, assessing the situation. Then, when they realized what was happening, they pulled out their weapons. The girl held twin daggers, one defensively to her side and the other up and ready to strike, while the man with the fiddle pulled out a pistol, and the other man his cutlass.
"Tala, tuer!" the young woman shouted.
The wolf, answering her call, ran forward and attacked one of the leader's minions. In one swift motion, it struck the neck, tearing a chunk of flesh away and letting loose a torrent of blood.
The leader ignored the wolf and raised his fist in the air. He needed no words to command his minions, and they obeyed the silent order in unison. They all pulled knives from their belts and placed them under the necks of the subdued men.
"Stop!" the girl shouted.
The leader held his hand in the air, unwavering, and he stared at the girl. He didn't want to continue the command if he didn't have to, as that was not his plan, and so he waited for the girl to act.
After another moment, the girl realized there wasn't anything she could do and lowered her daggers. "Tala, venir," she said. The French verb meant 'come,' a command to the wolf, which it obeyed by stopping its attack and returning to the girl's side.
The leader opened his palm and lowered his hand, then pointed at the three, and his minions went to restrain them. The wolf growled but remained stationary.
Now that he was closer, the leader was able to take a better look at the girl in command.
Her features, lit from a lantern in the cabin they had just exited, were pleasing to the eye. She was blond with a hint of rouge, as a tranquil field of wheat in the red light of dawn. Her body was well-toned, a fighter's body, youthful and shapely as a budding rose that could one day bloom into motherhood.
All those they had captured so far looked to be good fighters, trained and ready for battle. They would make useful additions.
The leader pulled the young woman's chin up to face him. Her cheeks flushed with anger and embarrassment.
"Look into my eyes."
…
A new day began in their stalemate of a battle.
Anne awoke from her first rest in some time and assessed their battle preparations and provisions with new eyes.
Nassir and
the other crewmates had worked hard through the night and prepared a defensive wall of cannons. The makeshift, stationary limbers would hold the cannons and prevent them from flying away after each blast but were challenging to change the angle of. To be effective, they needed two men on each of the smaller cannons, as opposed to a single man had they still been at their home on the ship.
Their provisions, gathered from the many farms they had visited, would sustain them for quite some time if needed, and they could also collect more. If they couldn't win by force or by stealth, which Anne would find out about soon, then they could win by starvation. No matter how powerful the trance Silver Eyes' crew were under, they could not avoid the need for food indefinitely.
A few paces back from the line of cannons aimed at the town, Anne had set up a table with a few chairs for her, William, and some of the other crewmates to discuss strategy. She noticed William sitting there, and a bowl of food and a drink waiting for her. Pukuh was standing beside William, chewing on a piece of bread with meat and cheese on it.
Anne sat and quickly ate the modest food to break her fast. She didn't want to waste any time to discuss the investigation of the secret entrance Sam had provided the key for. She still found it challenging to eschew habits formed during her royal upbringing and waited until she finished swallowing before she spoke.
"What of the tunnel into the town?" Anne asked.
William glanced at Pukuh over his shoulder, then gave his report. "The tunnel, as Sam said, appears to be for the soldiers in need of a flanking attack. However, it has fallen into disrepair due to negligence and arrogance. It could collapse at any moment."
Pukuh scoffed. "No matter. We'll not be long there," he said.
William appeared exasperated, though to anyone but Anne, who had been studying his minute expressions, he looked as placid as ever. "It is as our friend says. We shan't be in the tunnel long, so we could possibly end the battle tonight under cover of darkness."
"Why must there always be waiting with you white people? Now is the time to strike back. We kill their leader and dine in his puny castle before the sun is high."
Blackbeard's Family Page 18