Unbinding of Mary Reade

by Miriam McNamara

  They lay on the dock for a moment, breathless, the soggy bottom of Anne’s dress sticking to Mary’s legs. Mary’s breath caught in her throat when she looked over at her.

  Everything was different. I am different. She had shaken loose from her moorings. She could go anywhere from here.

  Mary wished they could lie there forever, staring up at the stars.

  They crept along the docks until they saw their vessel, its prow glowing in the moonlight. It was in such gleaming condition that it stood out clearly among the other boats and brigs, light catching on its bright spars and beams and railings. John Ham’s sloop. John “Catch Him if You Can” Ham—the famous privateer, made so by the quickness of his little ship. Small enough to man with just a few people, if it were needed. Big enough to carry them across the ocean. Fast enough to get them there before they died of starvation or thirst, if they were lucky.

  “There it is,” Mary whispered. “That’s our ship.”

  Anne nodded, a slow smile spreading across her lips. She’d come back to life, Mary could see it. She had been crushed, living in New Providence. She needed more room. She needed a whole ocean.

  It was a handsome sloop, with six guns, its lines sleek and well-maintained. Its name was the William. Asking around, Mary had learned that John Ham was on shore, receiving commission for his latest raid on the Spanish. It was tethered to the dock by a sturdy line and bowline knot that was easily untied. No plank to board it with, but there was a plank on the ship next to it, and how easy it was to slide it off one ship and lay it against another, with the two of them to move it. It thunked against the railing of the ship, and Mary held her breath. Surely if someone was aboard, they would have heard that. Ham might be at the governor’s mansion, but he could have left someone to guard his precious ship.

  But no one came.

  They crept up the plank. Their bare feet hit the William’s deck. They pulled the line in, and then the plank. They set about hoisting the sails.

  Just a bit; just enough to get them moving.

  The Delicia, the governor’s flagship, stood guard at the entrance of the harbor between Nassau, Hog’s Island, and open water. In a jolly boat, they’d been too slight to warrant notice. On their way out, though, in John Ham’s precious sloop—

  Mary had a plan.

  On the docks of Hog’s Island, no man looked up from his dice long enough to see the sail inch up along a mast. No man set down his bottle long enough to notice that Ham’s ship had come unmoored. No man looked past the glowing end of his pipe to see the silhouettes of two women creeping along the railing, hands held fast.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CARIBBEAN SEA—1720

  “STATE YOUR BUSINESS,” THE WATCHMAN ON THE DELICIA HOLLERED pompously.

  “John Ham here, sir,” said Mary easily, a broad-brimmed hat from the captain’s quarters hiding her face. “Was settling in for the night and damn it all, my anchor line broke and I discovered myself adrift.”

  “Horrid bad luck,” remarked the watchman. “Losing an anchor like that. What do ye need—a tether for the night?”

  Anne squeezed her hand excitedly, crouched next to the gunwale so she wouldn’t be seen.

  “No need, I’ve men enough to keep it in place for the night with sailpower—I’ll wait till morning to go find a new anchor.”

  “Aye. Makes sense, that,” said the watchman.

  Anne clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with delight.

  “We’ll stand outside the harbor for the night. Be back in the morning.”

  “’Night then,” said the watchman.

  They hardly breathed as they passed the Delicia, rounded the corner of Hog’s Island, and hoisted the sails. They certainly didn’t whoop until they were well out of earshot.

  They were on board the fastest ship in the Bahamas.

  It mattered not if you were on the run, if no one could catch you.

  This ship was different. This ship was fast; Mary felt it hum beneath her feet as the sails unfurled, she heard it sigh when the wind picked up. She realized she’d only ever been on stiff, awkward vessels before now. Resisting the water, when water invited so much give and take. She’d liked sailing before, but this was different. This ship was small and light and unafraid. This ship was built to hug the wind, to skim the water—it felt like flying.

  She was sailing as Mary Reade, and she would man a cannon. She would mend a sail. Whatever happened, she’d live and die as herself—not poor dead Mark, not some pretend girl she thought she should be.

  Mary’s lungs filled with warm air and it felt like her heart was heating up inside her. She was running away, but this time Anne was with her. It wasn’t a home she was running from, but another would-be prison.

  Home was coming with her this time.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CARIBBEAN SEA—1719

  IT WAS THEN, AS MARY LOOKED INTO THE BATTLE FOG WITH THE STENCH of blood and sulfur in her nose, that she saw a strange and incredible vision hurtling over the gunwales.

  Eyes wild, the fantastic creature had two men down before Mary could scarcely register the sight of her. A girl. Unmistakably a girl, like her, but dressed in battered velvet and lace worn in a steady salt spray and the West Indian sun. Her curly red hair tangled atop her head in an outrageous mess. She sweated, beaming as if she’d impressed herself by ascending the grappling line in skirts.

  Cutlass, flintlock, one two, and the man before the girl went down. The girl’s cunning black eyes swept the deck.

  Nothing about the girl made sense.

  Mary had never seen anything so exhilarating.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  SO MANY BRILLIANT, KIND, AND THOUGHTFUL PEOPLE HAVE CONTRIBUTED to this book since I was first inspired to write it.

  Thank you to Joy Neaves and Tommy Hayes, and everyone in that workshop at Warren Wilson College and my classes at the Great Smokies Writing Program who read my first pages and encouraged me to actually write the dang thing, and to apply to the MFA program at Vermont College of Fine Arts.

  Thank you to my entire, enthusiastic VCFA family. What an incredible and supportive community! In particular, a thousand thanks to my advisors, Martine Leavitt, Susan Fletcher, and Rita Williams-Garcia, for teaching me so much while I got the story down—and to Julie Larios, for giving me such a fun break from it! Thank you to An Na, for being a wonderful friend and mentor after VCFA.

  Thank you to my extra-special super team at VCFA, the Secret Gardeners! I love you all. A special thanks to Cordelia Jensen, for giving me so much advice and letting me peek behind the curtains of the publishing process before I was there myself. And the most grateful love and appreciation for Nora Carpenter and Rachel Hylton, my SG Asheville buddies when our time at VCFA was done. You guys were there, cheering and commiserating and beta-reading through every dang step. You both are the literal BEST.

  Thank you to Mom and Dad, for letting me read all the books I wanted when I was growing up, and for thinking that everything I ever wrote was amazing. Thank you to all of my awesome friends! Thank you to G Tates, for being the best pen pal ever and not telling me I was insane when I sent you poorly written chapters composed on a typewriter by snail mail because I thought it was romantic. Special thanks to Caroline and David, for reading an early draft of the manuscript I gave you after I’d had a few cocktails (even though I was adamant about not letting any of my friends read it) and then telling me it was amazing every time I was feeling discouraged. Thank you to Hannah, for being my inside operative at Malaprops Bookstore. Thank you to Al for believing in me and my stories even when I didn’t, and for all the impassioned conversations about gender and the world and history and queerness that influenced this book.

  Thank you to the French Broad Chocolate Lounge, Dobra Teahouse, and the Battery Park Book Exchange and Champagne Bar for all the sugar, caffeine, and wine it took to keep me going. Thank you to Sharyn November for your enthusiasm, and for some particularly impactful feedback. Thank
you to Heather Demetrios and the Pneuma Creative community. Thank you to Raki Kopernik, for being my rad new writing group since I moved to Minneapolis!

  An extra-special thank you to Linda Epstein, my passionate and enthusiastic agent, for falling in love with Mary’s story and then never giving up on her, or me. I couldn’t ask for a better advocate. And thank you for having such amazing taste, so that I’m part of the most talented and fun crew of clients ever!

  Thank you to the Sky Pony team, especially Sammy Yuen for an adventurous and romantic cover that makes me squee every time I see it, and Kat Enright for that awesome scene suggestion!

  And finally, thank you to Rachel Stark, my perfect, badass editor. Working with you has been a dream come true, and somehow this story has become exactly the book I wanted to write. I can never thank you enough.