Assassin’s Creed®

by Oliver Bowden

  And yet, even so, I found myself strangely on the outside of the battle. Cowardice has never been a problem with me, but I am not sure I exchanged more than two sword strokes with one of the enemy, before it seemed the battle was over. Many of our men were dead. The rest began to drop to their knees and let their swords fall to the deck, hoping, no doubt, for the clemency of our invaders. Some still fought on, including the first mate, Trafford – by his side another man I didn’t know. Melling, I think his name was – and, as I watched, two of the attacking buccaneers came at him at once, swinging their swords with such force that no amount of fighting skill could have stopped them and he was driven back to the rail, slashes and cuts opening up in his face, screaming as they both stabbed into him.

  Blaney was there I saw. Also, not far away, was the third captain, a man I would come to know as Edward Thatch, and who years later the world would know as Blackbeard. He was just as the legend would describe him, though his beard was not so long back then: tall and thin, with thick dark hair. He had been in the fray, his clothes were splattered with blood and it dripped from the blade of his sword. He and one of his men had advanced up the deck and I found myself standing with two of my shipmates, Trafford and Blaney.

  Blaney. It would have to be him.

  And now the battle was over. I saw Blaney look from me to Trafford, then to Thatch. A plan formed and in the next instant he’d called to Thatch. ‘Sir, shall I finish them for you?’ And he swept his sword around to point at me and Trafford. For me he reserved an especially evil grin.

  We both stared at him in absolute disbelief. How could he do this?

  ‘Why, you scurvy bilge-sucking bastard!’ yelled Trafford, outraged at the treachery, and he leapt towards Blaney, jabbing his cutlass more in hope than expectation – unless his expectation was to die, for that’s exactly what happened.

  Blaney stepped easily to one side and at the same time whipped his sword in an underhand slash across Trafford’s chest. The first mate’s shirt split and blood drenched his front. He grunted in pain and surprise, but that didn’t stop him launching a second, yet sadly for him, even wilder attack. Blaney punished him for it, slashing again with the cutlass, landing blow after blow, catching Trafford again and again across the face and chest, even after Trafford had dropped his own blade, fallen to his knees and with a wretched whimper and blood bubbling at his lips pitched forward to the deck and lay still. I snatched up a sword and launched myself at Blaney, but my attack was just as haphazard as poor old Trafford, and Blaney hardly broke a sweat disarming me.

  The rest of the deck had fallen silent, each man left alive was now looking over to where we stood near the entrance to the captain’s cabin – just Blaney and I between the invaders and the doorway.

  ‘Shall I finish him, sir?’ said Blaney. The point of his sword was at my throat. Again, the grin.

  The crowd of men seemed to part round Edward Thatch as he stepped forward.

  ‘Now –’ he waved at Blaney with his cutlass, which still dripped with the blood of our crew – ‘why would you be calling me, “sir”, lad?’

  The point of Blaney’s sword tickled my throat. ‘I hope to join you, sir,’ he replied, ‘and prove my loyalty to you.’

  Thatch turned his attention to me. ‘And you, young ’un, what did you have in mind, besides dying at your shipmate’s sword, that is? Would you like to join my crew as a privateer or die a pirate, either at the hands of your crewmate here, or back home in Blighty?’

  ‘I never wanted to be a pirate, sir,’ I said quickly. (Stop yer grinning.) ‘I merely wanted to earn some money for my wife, sir, honest money to take back to Bristol.’

  (A Bristol from which I was banished and a wife I was prevented from seeing. But I decided not to bother Thatch with the little details.)

  ‘Aye,’ laughed Thatch, and threw out an arm to indicate the mass of captured men behind him, ‘and I suppose I could say this for every one of your crew left alive. Every man will swear he never intended a career in piracy. Ordered to do it by the captain, they’ll say. Forced into it against their will.’

  ‘He ruled with a rod of iron, sir,’ I said. ‘Any man who said as much would be telling you the truth.’

  ‘And how did your captain manage to persuade you to enter into this act of piracy, pray tell?’ demanded Thatch.

  ‘By telling us we would soon be pirates anyway, sir, when a treaty was signed.’

  ‘Well, he’s right most likely,’ sighed Thatch thoughtfully. ‘No denying it. Still, that’s no excuse.’ He grinned. ‘Not while I remain a privateer that is, sworn to protect and assist Her Majesty’s navy, which includes watching over the likes of the Amazon Galley. Now, you’re not a swordsman, are you, boy?’

  I shook my head.

  Thatch chuckled. ‘Aye, that is apparent. Didn’t stop you throwing yourself at this man here, though, did it? Knowing that you would meet your end at the point of his sword. Why was that then?’

  I bristled. ‘Blaney had turned traitor, sir; I saw red.’

  Thatch jammed the point of his cutlass into the deck, rested both hands on the hilt and looked from me to Blaney, who had added wariness to his usual expression of angry incomprehension. I knew how he felt. It was impossible to say from Thatch’s demeanour where his sympathies lay. He simply looked from me to Blaney, then back again. From me to Blaney, then back again.

  ‘I have an idea,’ he roared at last, and every man on the deck seemed to relax at once. ‘Let’s settle this with a duel. What do you say, lads?’

  Like a set of scales, the crew’s spirits rose as mine sank. I had barely used a blade. Blaney, on the other hand, was an experienced swordsman. Settling the matter would be the work of a heartbeat for him.

  Thatch chuckled. ‘Ah, but not with swords, lads, because we’ve already seen how this one here has certain skills with the blade. No, I suggest a straight fight. No weapons, not even knives. Does that suit you, boy?’

  I nodded my head, thinking what would suit me most was no fight at all, but a straight fight was the best I could hope for.

  ‘Good.’ Thatch clapped his hands and his sword juddered in the wood. ‘Come on, lads, form a ring; let these two gentlemen get to it.

  The year was 1713, and I was about to die, I was sure of it.

  Thinking about it – that was twelve years ago, wasn’t it? It would have been the year you were born.

  20

  ‘Then let us begin,’ Thatch commanded.

  Men had shimmied up the rigging and clung to the masts. Men were in the ratlines, on the rails and the top decks of all three ships – every man-jack of them craning to get a better view. Playing to the crowd, Blaney stripped off his shirt so that he was down to his breeches. Conscious of my puny torso I did the same. Then we dropped our elbows, raised our fists, eyed each other up.

  My opponent grinned behind raised forearms – his fists were as big as hams and twice as hard. His knuckles like statues’ noses. No, this probably wasn’t quite the sword fight Blaney wanted, but it was the next best thing. The chance to pulverize me with the captain’s consent. To beat me to death without risking the taste of a cat-o’-nine-tails.

  From the decks and rigging came the shouts of the crew, keen to witness a good bout. By which I mean a bloody bout. Just from the catcalls it was difficult to make out if they had a favourite, but I put myself in their position: what would I want to see if I were them? I’d want to see sport.

  So let’s give it to them, I thought. I brought my own fists up higher and what I thought about was how Blaney had been a huge pain in the arse from the moment I had set foot on board. Nobody else. Just him. This thick-as-pigshit cretin. All my time on ship I’d spent dodging Blaney and wondering why he hated me, because I wasn’t snot-nosed and arrogant then, not like I’d been back home. Life on board had tamed that side of me. I dare say I’d grown up a bit. What I’m saying is, he had no real reason to hate me.

  But right then it came to me. The reason why. He hated me
because. Just because. And if I hadn’t been around to hate he would have found someone else to fill my shoes. One of the cabin boys, perhaps. One of the blacks. He just liked hating.

  And for that I hated him in return, and I channelled that feeling, that hate. Perplexed at his hostility? I turned it into hate. Staying out of his way day after day? I turned it into hate. Having to look at his stupid, thick face day after day? Turned it into hate.

  And because of that the first strike was mine. I stepped in and it seemed to explode out of me, using my speed and my size to my advantage, ducking beneath his protecting fists and smashing him in the solar plexus. He let out an oof and staggered back, the surprise more than the pain making him drop his guard, enough for me to dance quickly to my left and drive forward with my left fist, finding a spot above his right eye that, just for one delicious second, I thought might have been good enough to finish him off.

  A roar of approval and bloodlust from the men. It had been a good punch. Enough to open a cut that began to leak a steady stream of blood down his face. But, no, it wasn’t enough to stop him for good. Instead the look of angry incomprehension he always wore became even more uncomprehending. Even angrier. I’d landed two punches, he precisely none. He hadn’t even moved from his spot.

  I flitted back. I’ve never been one for fancy footwork, but compared to Blaney I was nimble. Plus I had the advantage. First blood to me and with the crowd on my side. David versus Goliath.

  ‘Come on, you fat bastard,’ I taunted him. ‘Come on, this is what you’ve wanted to do the minute I came aboard the ship. Let’s see what you got, Blaney.’

  The crew had heard me and shouted their approval, perhaps for my sheer gumption. From the corner of my eye I saw Thatch throw back his head and laugh, with his hand at his belly. To save face, Blaney had to act. You have to give it to him. He acted.

  Friday had told me that Blaney was skilled with his blade, and was an essential member of the Emperor’s boarding party. He hadn’t mentioned that Blaney was also good with his fists. He’d left that bit out. And I, for some reason, never assumed he had much in the way of boxing skills. But one bit of nautical wisdom I had learnt was ‘never assume’ and, on this occasion at least, I ignored it. Once again my arrogance had got me into trouble.

  And how quick the crowd was to turn as Blaney struck. Never go down in the fight. It’s the one golden rule. Never go down in a fight. But I had no choice as his fist made contact and bells rang in my head as I went to the deck on my hands and knees, and spat out teeth on a string of blood and phlegm. My vision jarred and blurred. I’d been hit before, of course, many times, but never – never – as hard as that.

  Amid the rushing of my pain and the roaring of the spectators – roaring for blood, which Blaney was going to give to them, with pleasure – he bent to me, putting his face close enough for me to smell his rancid breath, which spilled like fog over black and rotted teeth.

  ‘ “Fat bastard”, eh?’ he said and hawked up a green. I felt the wet slap of phlegm on my face. One thing you have to say about a ‘fat bastard’ taunt. It always gets them going.

  And then he straightened, and I could see his boot so near to my face I saw the spider-cracks in the leather, and still trying to shake off the pain I lifted one pathetic hand as though to ward off the inevitable kick.

  The kick, though, when it came was aimed not at my face but squarely at my belly, and was so hard that it lifted me into the air and I was deposited back on the deck. From the corner of my eye I saw Thatch, and perhaps I had allowed myself to believe that he favoured me in the bout, but he was laughing just as heartily at my misfortune as he had been when Blaney was rocked. I rolled weakly to my side as I saw Blaney coming towards me. He lifted his boot to stamp on me and looked up to Thatch. ‘Sir?’ he asked.

  To hell with that; I wasn’t waiting. With a grunt I grabbed his foot, twisted it and sent him sprawling back to the deck. A tremor of renewed interest ran through the spectators. Whistles and shouts. Cheers and boos.

  They didn’t care who won. They just wanted the spectacle. But now Blaney was down and with a fresh surge of strength I threw myself on top of him, pummelling him with my fists at the same time as I drove my knees into his groin and midriff, attacking him like a child in the throes of a temper tantrum, hoping against hope that I might lay him out with a lucky blow.

  I didn’t. There were no lucky blows today. Just Blaney grabbing my fists, wrenching me to the side, slamming the flat of his hand into my face and sending me flying backwards. I heard my nose break and felt blood gush over my top lip. Blaney lumbered over and this time he wasn’t waiting for Thatch’s permission. This time he was coming in for the kill. In his fist shone a blade …

  There was the crack of a pistol and a hole appeared on his forehead. His mouth dropped open, and the fat bastard fell to his knees – dead to the deck.

  When my vision cleared I saw Thatch reaching to help me from the deck with one hand. In the other, a flintlock pistol, still warm.

  ‘I got a vacancy on my crew, lad,’ he said. ‘Do you want to fill it?’

  I nodded as I stood and looked down at Blaney’s body. A wisp of smoke rose from the bloody hole in his forehead. Should have killed me when you had the chance, I thought.

  21

  March, 1713

  Miles away in a place I’d never visited and never would – although, after all, it’s never too late – a bunch of representatives of England, Spain, France, Portugal and Holland were sitting down to draft a series of treaties that would end up changing all our lives, forcing us to take a new direction, shattering our dreams.

  But that was to come. First, I found myself adjusting to a new life – a life I liked very much.

  I was lucky, I suppose, because Edward Thatch took to me. A scrapper, was what he called me. And I think he liked having me around. He used to say that in me he had a trusted hand, and he was right, he did; for Edward Thatch had saved me from embarking on a life of crime under Captain Dolzell – well, either that or be thrown overboard like those other poor fellows. It was thanks to his intervention, and thanks to being taken under his wing that I could make something of myself, return to Bristol and to Caroline as a man of quality, head held high.

  And, yes, just because you and I know that it didn’t work out that way doesn’t make it any less true.

  Life at sea was very much the same as it had been before, but with certain attractive differences. There was no Blaney, of course. The last I’d seen of that particular barnacle on my life was him slipping into the sea like a dead whale. And there was no Captain Alexander Dolzell. He ended up being condemned to death by the British in 1715. Without those two life on ship immediately improved; it was the life of a privateer. And so we engaged the Spanish and Portuguese when we could, and took prizes when we could, and along with the skills of a sailor I began to refine the craft of combat. Thatch took me under his wing. From him I learnt better sword skills, and I learnt how to use pistols.

  And, also from Edward Thatch, I learnt a certain philosophy of life, a philosophy that he in turn had learnt from another older buccaneer, a man under who Edward served, who would also be my mentor. A man named Benjamin Hornigold.

  And where else should I meet Benjamin but at Nassau?

  I’m not sure we ever thought of the port of Nassau on New Providence Island as ever really ‘belonging’ to us, because that wasn’t our way. But it was a kind of heaven for us, with its steep cliffs on one side, its long sloping beach that swept down to a shallow sea – too shallow for His Majesty’s men-of-war – its quayside where we offloaded booty and supplies, and its hillside fortress on the hill, overlooking a raggle-taggle collection of shanty houses, huts and crumbling wooden terraces. And of course, it had a wonderful harbour, where vessels enjoyed shelter from the elements and from our enemies. Making an attack even more difficult was the ships’ graveyard, where the skeletal remains of burnt and grounded ships were a warning to the unwary. There were the palms, th
e smell of seawater and tar in the air, taverns and plentiful run. And Edward Thatch was there. And Benjamin Hornigold was there.

  I liked Benjamin. He had been Blackbeard’s mentor, just as Blackbeard was mine, and there was never a better sailor than Benjamin Hornigold.

  And yet, although you may think I’m only saying this because of what subsequently happened, you’re going to have to believe me when I swear it’s true. I always thought there was something apart about him. Not only did he have a more military bearing and a hawk nose like a toff English general, but he dressed differently as well, more like a soldier than a buccaneer.

  But still, I liked him, and if I didn’t like him as much as I liked Edward, well, then I respected him as much, if not more. After all, Benjamin was the one who had helped establish Nassau in the first place. For that, if nothing else, I liked him.

  I was sailing with Edward in July 1713 when the quartermaster was killed on a trip ashore. Two weeks after that we received a message and I was called to the captain’s quarters.

  ‘Can you read, son?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I said, and I thought briefly of my wife back home.

  Edward sat at one side of his navigation table rather than behind it. His legs were crossed and he wore long black boots, a red sash at his waist and four pistols in a thick leather shoulder belt. Maps and charts were laid out beside him but something told me it wasn’t those he needed reading.

  ‘I need a new quartermaster,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, sir, I don’t think –’

  He roared with laughter and slapped his thighs. ‘No, son, I don’t “think” either. You’re too young and you don’t have the experience to be a quartermaster. Isn’t that right?’

  I looked at my boots.