Unbinding of Mary Reade

by Miriam McNamara

  “Hey, now.” Nat slapped Mary on the back. “This is me mate, Mark, and though he’s small he’s sharp as a pin. He can read, even.”

  The fair one snorted and took another bite of his hardtack, showering them with more crumbs. “Oh, that’s how you catch a pirate, is it? By reading him a bloody book?”

  Mary smiled uneasily as Nat laughed and countered him. She was thrown by the boys’ easy banter, not quite sure how to slide into the rhythms of it. She knew how to be a boy, didn’t she? But around the three of them, she suddenly felt unpracticed and awkward.

  The first one who’d spoken turned out to be Robbie, and the other Kit. They were a couple of Clerkenwell boys, a few years older than she, who’d worked for Johnny on some of the trips that Nat had sailed. Mary followed the three of them around, pretending as if she knew what sheets and clewlines were as Nat tossed clues to her. Her hands chapped raw on the ropes. She soon felt dizzy and exhausted, holding her water until she wanted to scream—all while Nat joked back and forth with the boys, as if this was the easiest work he’d ever done.

  But she clenched her jaw and did it right along with him. Abe had been right—she was a nimble bugger, able to reach the topmost sails as the water swooned far below, and this at least made her feel like she might be able to hold her own. After a few hours she found she liked being high up—the farther away from the dark, stinking hold of the ship, the better.

  “There you go, Mark!” Nat called up as she managed her first buntline hitch on a corner of the topgallant. “We’ll make a proper tar of you yet!”

  She patted the sail, content despite her aching hands and shoulders and bladder. She could do this.

  The sun was finally breaking through the fog, the river giving way to sparkling sea ahead. Vast swathes of white canvas billowed below her, rippling as gulls soared, screeching, between them. This must be what it would be like to sail on a cloud through the sky. Far away from London and the consequences of her lies. She closed her eyes and felt the sway of everything around her, her body swooping through the air like a bird.

  Nat grabbed her ankle and she looked down. He said something, but up this high the wind whipped words away faster than he could shout them.

  “What?”

  “I said,” he yelled, “you fancy a leak?”

  Her nerves jolted. She needed him to show her where to relieve herself. She needed to get this test out of the way, to prove to herself that she could survive the long trip to the West Indies. But most of all, she needed to make water. She climbed down after him, Kit and Robbie following. Mary began to sweat. She didn’t think she could pull it off for the first time in front of all of them.

  But Kit and Robbie stopped above deck, arguing over something, and only Nat took the ladder below the main deck with her. They headed toward the front of the ship.

  Could she really pull this off? There was more to worry about than just making water. Mum had taught her to keep extra linen bound around her waist, in case she bled—it was rare enough, but if her flow did make an appearance, she could rip a length off and tuck it into the belt in front and back to catch the blood. The fabric she had now was torn from the end of one of Granny’s bedsheets, and if that ran out, she could always use a strip ripped from the bottom of her shirt. That would get her across the ocean at least. Still, she would have to be so careful.

  The light filtering through the gun ports flickered against Nat’s silhouette as he walked ahead of her, ducking under crossbeams and stepping over coils of rope until he reached a narrow door in the front wall of the hold. “Phew, that stench will remind you of home quick enough, won’t it?” Nat asked.

  It did smell like the stoop of their tenement, where the drunks liked to do their business as they stumbled home. Mary ducked through the door after Nat into a triangular room. There was a hole on either side of the peak and a trough in between for doing both kinds of business. It all emptied into the sea below, where the prow of the ship curved inward. Mary could see seawater churning through the holes, occasionally splashing up through the wooden slats. At least the flushing motion kept the boards reasonably clean. The stench must be from where tars had missed their mark.

  She didn’t hear Kit and Robbie coming down to join them. Only one boy to fool, instead of three. Nat stepped in front of the trough and opened the front of his britches.

  She stepped up to the trough too, as far a distance as she thought decent, and opened her own, careful to shield herself. She pretended to hold herself with one hand, as a boy would do. With the other she pulled up, like Mum had shown her as a child in the tenement, when she’d aimed for the chamber pot set on a chair.

  Thank God, the trick still worked—her water streamed right into the trough. She groaned with relief, her bladder emptying. She wasn’t a particularly clean shot, but when she snuck a peek at Nat she saw that he was worse than her for getting his water over everything. He didn’t seem to be trying as hard to aim as she was.

  He finished, then shook and waggled a bit. She was sure to do the same.

  Just like that! A giggle escaped her.

  “What’s so funny?” Nat asked.

  “Laughing at your tiny willy, is he?” Kit said, clattering through the doorway as Mary scrambled to close her buttons.

  Robbie followed, sauntering up to the trough. “Can’t say I blame him—laugh at it every time I catch sight of it, I do.” They both dropped their britches.

  “Hey now,” said Nat. “It’s not so wee as all that. But we can sort this matter out quick enough if you like.”

  Kit turned, his britches falling to his ankles. “Well then, let’s see how you measure up!”

  Mary was out the door in a heartbeat. She couldn’t get pulled into a game like that.

  She pulled herself back up the ladder, into the sunlight, and leaned over the railing—the gunwale, as it was properly called. She’d learned so much already, just in the time it took for London to become a gray smudge on the horizon behind them.

  She turned her head the other way. Ahead was nothing but shining, limitless water and an open sky. Nothing but possibility. She was still determined to tell Nat—but with boys like Kit and Robbie hanging around, she’d have to be careful to find the right time to do it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CARIBBEAN SEA—1719

  JACK SPOTTED THE PERFECT TARGET, FINALLY, AFTER WEEKS OF RAIDING fishing canoes and small bateaux along the coast of Cuba. “There,” he said, pointing it out to Cager as Mary came to see what the fuss was about. “Two masts. Some sort of schooner. And that’s the Spanish flag.”

  Mary’s skin prickled as she made out the ship, just coming around the curve of the island. They weren’t too far off.

  “Aye,” confirmed Cager, squinting as he leaned over the gunwale. “Think it’s time to hoist the Spanish colors and close-haul the sails.”

  “Approach with caution,” said Jack. “If she seems like a ship we can take, let’s do it as bloodlessly as possible. All we’re trying to do is convince them to trade our ship for theirs. We can’t afford to lose anyone right now.”

  Mary nodded as Cager ran to tell the others, her heart starting to pound as she remembered the frightened Spanish fishermen they’d stolen their flag from. The sailors they’d been raiding as they rounded the western tip of the island and closed in on Havana were as ground down as she had been in her tenement in Wapping.

  But this conquest was different. A schooner like this one, the kind of ship that could get to Nassau fast, but was small enough to commandeer from a piragua, would belong to someone wealthy. “I’ll run the flag up the mast,” she said, and ran to grab it.

  They sailed close to the wind to within shouting distance, then hailed the schooner innocently, Anne leaning over the gunwale and waving a friendly hand. “Por favor!” she called in the snatches of Spanish she’d learned from an old crew member. “Estamos perdidos!” The schooner obliged by turning toward them.

  Anne smiled at Jack, eyes bright with a
nticipation. “Look at that,” she said. “Whatever would you do without me, Jack?”

  “Not now,” Jack said shortly.

  Anne’s smile tightened, but she pushed her hair back and returned to waving at the ship. Without cannon they’d have to get close enough to board quickly, with surprise on their side. Mary clutched her grappling hook tight behind her back as they drew close.

  “I count only seven on board,” Anne said, all playfulness gone from her voice. The pistol and cutlass she gripped were mostly hidden by her skirts. “There may be a few more of them out of sight, but it’s not a big ship. This should be easy enough.”

  “Aye,” Jack said. “Prepare to board on my command.”

  Blood pounded in Mary’s ears as they came up broadside. Two men peered over the gunwale of the schooner, calling to them in Spanish.

  “Let’s go, gentlemen!” Jack commanded.

  Mary widened her stance and imitated Cager as he swung his grappling hook toward the target’s gunwale. She flung her hook in an awkward arc, but it caught as the schooner’s passengers disappeared behind their railing, shouting. She swore and held on tight, hauling against the motion between the ships. Once Mary’s and Cager’s lines were steady, Stephen and Davie stretched a ladder between the two ships and scrambled across, Jack and Anne following.

  Mary lashed her line to the gunwale of the piragua as two musket shots blasted into the deck beside her. She swore and clambered onto the ladder, splinters biting into her palms as seawater roiled below. The ladder pitched up and down wildly as the ships shifted on the waves, spray making every rung slick. She kept her eyes on the dirty hem of Anne’s skirt as it dragged in front of her, moving one hand at a time until Mary fell over the gunwale. She staggered to her feet, a thrill shooting through her as she readied her pistol and took in the scene.

  Stephen ran toward the helmsman, brandishing his cutlass. One of the Spanish crewmen trembled as he trained a musket on Stephen’s back—but Cager shot past Mary and knocked him to the ground. Jack and Anne had another two men up against a mast, both of them weaponless, hands up as they pleaded.

  Davie was steadying himself against a barrel, blood soaking through the fingers he held pressed to his stomach. “Got me right as I jumped aboard,” he gasped, pointing toward the captain’s quarters, “then shut himself in there.”

  Will crouched beside Davie to look at his wound, while Tommy and Jeremiah swung themselves up on the ratlines toward a sailor on the mainyard, who was screaming down at them but didn’t appear to have a weapon.

  Mary cocked her pistol and approached the cabin warily. She made herself put her hand on the knob, her breath coming fast.

  She threw open the cabin door with a strangled yell and aimed her pistol at one side of the small room, then the other—a child was against the wall, eyes wide. Mary gasped, eyes flicking between the corners as she lowered her pistol. Where was Davie’s assailant? The child couldn’t have been more than six, dressed in fine clothes, tears streaking his face.

  Anne panted as she came up behind Mary and peered into the cabin. “Christ,” said Anne, “you’re scared of him? Come here, child.” She reached out her hand. “It’s all right. We won’t hurt you.” She strode into the chamber.

  “Wait!” shouted Mary, grabbing for Anne as a man leapt from behind the door, roaring, and grabbed Anne, holding a knife to her throat—

  Jack lunged through the door past Mary, firing his flintlock. He swore as the man released Anne and fell to the ground with a gargling cry. Anne stumbled upright and spun around, pressing her cutlass to the man’s neck.

  “Papá!” the boy screamed.

  Mary clutched the doorframe as Jack and Anne froze. Blood bubbled between the man’s lips as he rolled onto his back, struggling to breathe, and Anne slowly drew her weapon back, her eyes flicking to Jack. The man reached for the child with trembling fingers, chest spasming as he tried to speak.

  When Jack turned, the anguish on his face made Mary’s heart skip a beat. “Go!” she said, grabbing his arm and pulling him out the door. “I’ll make sure the cabin’s secure.” Jack stumbled back toward the deck as she ducked into the cabin and peered around, breathing hard. No one else was there.

  Anne started after Jack, cursing under her breath. Mary watched helplessly as the man’s head fell back against the floor of the cabin, his eyes losing focus. Mary crouched down in front of the sobbing child and grabbed his shoulders. “Stay here,” she ordered, but she was sure he didn’t understand her. His mouth was open, eyes squeezed shut. “Papá, no!” he wailed. “Papá!”

  Mary stood shakily and walked out of the cabin, shutting the child and his dead father in, away from the fighting. Then she ran to help the others. It would be over soon.

  They won the schooner without any deaths on their side. It was well-made ship, the ropes and sails fresh and stiff, the deck newly whitewashed, with a good supply of sweet water and food, though they found only two bottles of rum on it. The Spanish crew had been convinced to board the piragua without further trouble. The child had been subdued as he climbed down the ladder, watching with bottomless eyes as the body of his father was passed down after him.

  Will soaked Davie’s knife wound with rum and bound it, and both of them seemed optimistic about of the chance of staving off an infection. But a pall hung over the crew as they trimmed the sails and headed for open water. The rush of the fight had worn off, leaving Mary shaky and sick. When she rubbed her forehead her hand came away with blood on it, and it wasn’t hers.

  Jack paced the deck. “I always swore I’d never be the pirate who killed some child’s nurse in front of him.” He flung himself down on a crate and dragged his fingers through his hair. “Instead, I killed his bloody father while he watched.”

  “You didn’t have a choice,” said Cager from behind the helm. “You did what you had to do.”

  “Aye,” Anne said, sitting on the crate next to Jack. She looked exhausted. “It was that or he’d’ve slit me throat.”

  Jack jumped up and started pacing again. “If you hadn’t let your guard down, no one would have had to die,” Jack muttered. “Bill was right—we’d’ve been better off not letting a woman fight after all.”

  Anne looked at him incredulously. “You think that would have gone so much better without two of your crew?”

  Jack leaned on the gunwale and stared at the horizon. “I didn’t mean Mary.”

  “Oh yes, that’s right,” Anne said, her voice dripping sarcasm, “she’s ‘nothing like me.’” Anne threw Mary a pointed look. “I thought we were both women at least, but I’m beginning to get the idea that I was wrong about that as well.”

  Mary bit back a retort. With a cold look, Jack stalked over to the cabin and shut himself inside. Anne looked small and alone, watching Jack disappear from her perch on the crate. But before she could turn back Mary took off, pulling herself up on the ratline, to see if she could get a little more wind in the sails. She couldn’t get to Nassau fast enough.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  NASSAU—1719

  MARY JUMPED INTO THE WATER THE MOMENT THE JOLLY BOAT RAN aground on Nassau. “I need to find the main market,” she said to Anne. “Can you show me where that is?” She was sunburned and filthy, her hair tangled and thick with salt, but she wanted to find Nat as soon as possible. It had taken them weeks to get to Nassau from the waters outside Havana. The sea had been swarming with Spanish and British ships engaged in yet another war.

  Anne vaulted over the side of the boat. “I’m headed that way, and I can’t stop you from following.”

  Mary ground her teeth as she pulled the boat up onto the shore by herself while Anne took off without looking back. They’d been cool with each other since Isla de Cotorras, and worse since the fumbled attack—and yet Anne still had the power to nettle her with one careless remark.

  She and Anne had made landfall on a deserted strip of beach out of sight of Hog’s Island, where Jack was docking the Spanish schooner and sur
rendering to the authorities. Mary planned to slip into New Providence quietly, and at the last minute, Anne had jumped into the jolly boat with her. If they pretended they’d come to Nassau on their own, no one would know that Mary had ever been a pirate, and Anne wouldn’t be instantly jailed as an adulteress.

  It was a hot day, but a stiff breeze kept it bearable. Anne led Mary along the beach until they were directly across from Hog’s Island, where Mary could just make out the shape of the docked Spanish schooner. She recalled how the whole crew had grown quiet approaching Nassau, wondering if the pardon that had been offered would be honored, or if they were walking into the lion’s mouth. She squinted across the water, but there was no way to tell what was happening on board.

  She followed Anne away from the shore, down a short, sandy path. Anne groaned as they scuffed their dirty feet up the path and the first stalls of the market came into view. “You should have seen it before!” she said. “All set up along the ocean—full of amazing things from all the world over, oozing with excitement, nonstop drinking and dancing. Now look at it. Rogers brought a bunch of bloody Protestants with him and they ruined everything.”

  It didn’t seem so terrible. The sandy soil glowed hot and white; the water behind them shone blue; the trees and scrub rising ahead were green, lush, and shady. There were no tall buildings; no foggy air, no gray, damp stone, no steel-blue water. The gloomy, stinking markets of London were far away. Still, something made Mary’s heart clench as they approached what could almost be mistaken for Billingsgate Market. Silvery fish were laid out, freshly gutted, alongside piles of conch and crab. The squalor, the mewling of kittens and barking of dogs, the smells of broiling fat and the smoke of cook fires, the stench of piss pots emptied into the sand—this market was full of the people she had left behind, come here to find a new beginning. Just like her.

  She heard a sharp inhalation behind her and turned to see that Anne had stopped. “There he is,” she whispered, staring toward the market. “The bastard.” Her knuckles whitened as she bunched her skirt between her fingers.