Only Life That Mattered

by Nelson, James L.

  Rogers nodded. James and Oglethorpe were vicious rogues, and he had never been much impressed with their sincerity in accepting the King’s pardon. Very well, he would have them watched. Let them make one move and it was the gallows for both of them.

  The sailor was still shifting from foot to foot, abusing the brim of his hat with nervous fingers.

  “Is that all?”

  “Yes, sir, but, sir, I’ll keep my ears open, you know, keep a weather eye out, and if I hears more, then you’ll know it, sir . . .”

  “Good. Thank you, I am grateful.” God, what a pathetic weasel, Rogers thought. He hated such men, hated the necessity that drove him to countenance them. He dug in his purse, produced a shilling. “There you go, son, for your trouble.”

  The sailor took the coin eagerly. “Bless you, sir. Thank you.”

  “What is your name, lad?”

  “Bonny, sir. By your leave, James Bonny.”

  “Well, thank you, James Bonny.”

  “You’re welcome, your honor, to be sure . . .” James Bonny said, then with a bit more bobbing and scraping, he was gone.

  Rogers watched him hurry away through the dust and rubble of the fort. “What think you of this fellow, Hornigold?”

  “Bloody pathetic, the little worm.” Hornigold stared at the floor, frowned, and then said, “Yes, yes, now I recall. Saw him last night, down to the Ship Tavern.” He chuckled.

  “What of him?”

  “Him? Nothing. Just more of the trash that drifts through this place. But the damnedest thing. He has a wife, name of Anne. Lovely girl, damned lovely, and making quite a show of it. Drinking and carousing with all those dogs at the Ship, acts like she’s been pirating her whole life, though I was told they’ve only been here but three weeks or so. Quite a woman, I can’t recall the like.”

  “A whore?”

  “No, she ain’t, as I hear it. Just a girl who likes her fun.”

  “And she is married to this Bonny?”

  “For now. I’d warrant him for a dead man within the month. But this Anne Bonny, she will be trouble for you, my dear Rogers.” Hornigold poured another shot of rum, tossed it back, laughed. “She will be trouble.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ANNE BONNY spent eight weeks on New Providence Island, exploring the town and the interior, making herself welcome on the pirate ships that rode at anchor in the harbor, or strolling along the stretch of beach that served as home to most of the sea robbers there.

  Anne, with James in protesting tow, would amble down wide Bay Street, accepting the nods and lustful stares of the men she passed, down along the hot sand, stop and chat with those pirates with whom she was acquainted.

  As dusk fell they would make their appearance at the Ship. Then the revelries would begin in earnest, the long bouts of swilling rum and rumfustian, punch, gin. There were frequently musicians there, rough dancing, bawdy songs, the close-by sounds of fornicating, wild and unbridled. It was exactly the unfettered existence that Anne had craved, and she was the center of attention, the loudest, the most raucous, the most bawdy, the toast of the taverns. She was the object of all of their desires, and she enjoyed the attention, the unrequited lust, while James sulked and whined and tagged after her on their nightly bacchanal.

  Not so long before sunrise they would return to their room above the Ship Tavern and if Anne was not too disgusted, and if James was not too angry or drunk or both, and if they were still speaking to one another, they would make love.

  Mechanical, uninspired, and not overly satisfying, James would sweat away. He reminded Anne of a little dog humping its owner’s leg.

  When it was over they would sleep until noon, rise, and do it all again.

  Eight weeks, and then she was bored.

  She never thought it would happen, not there. Not in Nassau, with all its wicked delights, a bountiful source of excitement. But after two months, that life had become the one thing she detested: It was routine.

  Now she sat in the Ship Tavern at her usual table, the now familiar taste of rum in her throat, a film of sweat on her face and neck from the exertion of dancing with some great brute of a fellow who had been with Blackbeard himself aboard the Queen Anne’s Revenge before Teach had shed himself of that ship.

  James was sulking, angry with Anne for dancing with the man, but too afraid of both the pirate and his wife to make much of a protest.

  The night outside was cool and lovely, but in the dark tavern-room of the Ship it was sweltering with the close-packed clientele and the heat from the lanterns hanging from the rough-cut beams, the candles gutting and swirling and searching for air enough to stay lit in the thick layer of smoke.

  The musicians were playing, loud and fast, music for dancing, music for terrorizing a prize into surrender. Rogues crowded around the round tables, heavily armed, laughing loud, with whores in gaudy dresses on their knees, pewter mugs in hand.

  Anne picked up the bowl of punch, took a long drink.

  But I am bored, she thought. It was time for something new.

  “James, dear, what think you of moving on?” she asked.

  James looked around, confused, and said, “What? Off to our room?”

  “No, what think you of leaving Nassau? Go to Jamaica or Barbados, perhaps? See some more of these islands?”

  James Bonny scowled. “We’ve just but arrived here, and now it’s off again?”

  “We’ve not just arrived. We’ve been here two months, at least. We’ve seen what Nassau has to offer. I should like to take another voyage by sea, I think.”

  “Humph,” James Bonny said. He had not been much pleased with the goings on during the last voyage. “And where will I get the money then, eh? What should I do for work on them islands?”

  “What do you for work now, my dear?” Anne asked, and as she did, it occurred to her that she did not actually know how they were managing to live. James always seemed to have some money. Not much, but some, and she did not know from where it came. His wages for that one voyage from Charles Town could not have lasted that long, not the way she was wont to spend.

  She had hoped for some weeks that poverty would force James to ship out again, leave her there alone, where she could enjoy herself without feeling as if she had an anchor tied around her neck, but he showed no inclination to go.

  “How do you get your money?” she asked again, curious now.

  James smiled a cunning, knowing smile, an expression that did not suit him. “I have a special arrangement, do you see, with some very important men. Damned important men.”

  Anne squinted at him. She was on her way to being drunk, but not yet so far in her cups that she failed to see something was afoot. “Very important men” did not generally mix with the likes of James Bonny, nor did he have much to offer such people.

  “What, exactly, is your ‘special arrangement’?” she asked slowly.

  “It ain’t for your ears, and you a woman.”

  “What is it?”

  “I said, it ain’t for your ears. Now, you are my goddamned wife, will you bloody well act it for once, and not concern yourself with how I earns a living?”

  Anne glared at her husband. There were two ways she could pry this information from him: the sweet way or the bitchy way—and she was in no mood for the sweet way. “You are a liar. There are no important men would give you the time of day.”

  “Humph. You think not, eh?”

  “I know it. Speak no more on it.”

  “You think I got nothing to offer no one of quality? Just simple Jack Tar, am I?”

  “I said no more of your lies.”

  “Oh, lies is it?” James’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Well, Governor Woodes Rogers himself, he don’t see it as lies.”

  Woodes Rogers? The new governor was anathema to Anne, who took her opinions on such matters from the Brethren of the Coast, but she chuckled and said only, “Woodes Rogers, indeed!”

  “Hush up, you daft woman!” James hissed, g
lanced around quick. “Aye, Woodes Rogers. And old Ben Hornigold, what is now in His Majesty’s service, they are both most interested in what I have to say.”

  “And what might that be?” Anne spoke soft.

  James leaned forward, spoke softer yet. “I tells them things, see? Keep them informed of what is going on, the things I hear. Who is going on the account, who has the King’s pardon but don’t intend to honor it, that sort of thing. And aren’t they grateful, and willing to pay good coin for their gratitude?”

  Anne leaned back, putting distance between herself and James Bonny. “You loathsome little worm!” she said, loud. She could see her husband begin to panic, as well he might, though her voice could not penetrate the din unless she actually yelled, nor was anyone paying attention. “You little bastard, you filthy son of a bitch!”

  James looked furtively around and held up his hands in hopes of shutting Anne up.

  Anne glared at him, letting the contempt show in her face, but she did not enunciate his crimes. As vile, as vermin-like as he seemed to her at that moment, she could not do that. She knew what the men in the Ship Tavern would have done to her husband if they knew he had been telling tales to Woodes Rogers, and she would not have that on her conscience.

  She had always felt a touch of love, a bit of affection, for James Bonny, and pity for his weakness. But now that was gone. She hated him, reviled him, loathed him. He became suddenly something hideous to look upon. For the moment she was unable to move. She wanted to spit in his face, to kick him into the dirt. Perhaps she would make a general announcement of his perfidy.

  And then the front door of the tavern swung open—not the crack of someone slipping in or out, but flung open, a great, bold gesture. The cool evening air swirled the clouds of pipe smoke in patterns like the smoke of a battlefield and the blessed fresh draft wafted over Anne’s sweating brow.

  All heads turned toward the door. Anne looked as well. The noise dropped off to near silence.

  A man was standing there, framed by the entrance, a tall man, well built. In the dim light of the tavern Anne could make out little of him, but he stepped in through the door, his arms spread, as if he was welcoming the crowd like they were guests at his home. She could see fine clothes, long, dark hair tumbling in curls down a nearly white coat.

  But not white, there was a pattern to it, and the cloth of his breeches was striped in a bold pattern. Calico? It looked to be.

  She recalled hearing of one of the well-known figures in Nassau, gone off pirating with Charles Vane, who was given to such dress. Could this be him?

  Then the tavern erupted. Men leapt to their feet, crowded around the newcomer, slapped his back, and shook his hand. They pulled him into the room, and under the glow of one of the lanterns Anne could see the square jaw, the sculptured face, the thick, groomed hair, the white teeth under the audacious mustache. He would have been considered a handsome man among the gentry of Charles Town. Among the pirates, he was extraordinary.

  The swarm of men pulled this newcomer toward the bar, still pounding, still shaking his hand. Anne sat up straighter, watching the procession as it passed, intrigued and a bit piqued. She was the newcomer, the center of attention. She had not seen such a fuss made over anyone since her own arrival.

  From all corners of the tavern men and women called their hearty greetings, and Anne heard “John” and “Jack” and “Calico Jack Rackam” shouted out with drunken bonhomie.

  The men pulled Jack Rackam to the bar. The publican already had a bottle of rum freshly opened, and he placed it in Jack’s outstretched hand. Jack put it to his lips and quaffed it to the cheers of the others. He was some sort of prodigal son, this Calico Jack Rackam, and Anne watched, interest growing, trying to see through the press of men.

  Then, in a quirk of movement, the crowd of men around him parted and there was nothing but smoky air between herself and Calico Jack.

  Jack had thumped the bottle down on the bar, was turning his head, looking at nothing in particular, laughing, saying something, when like iron to lodestone his gaze caught Anne’s and he stopped and whatever he was saying died on his lips.

  He straightened, then leaned back against the bar, his eyes never leaving hers.

  Anne did not know what to do, so she held his gaze, gave it back as brazen as ever she was. She heard James Bonny make some whiny noise of disapproval, but she ignored him, hardly registering his protest or even his existence. She had forgotten his treachery, and in that instant she had forgotten him.

  There, across that dark, filthy room, Anne Bonny held Calico Jack Rackam’s eyes. Neither moved. And in that instant Anne knew that her whole world was about to turn over again.

  Just three hours before, Jack had ordered the Ranger’s anchor let go and the pirate brig found herself once more fast to the bottom of Nassau Harbor. It had been a long cruise, and Jack was glad it was over.

  In July they had given Rogers his fiery welcome and slipped away. At first light they had run out of Nassau harbor through a narrow, reef-bound channel and had sailed off to the northeast with such a lead that the British men-of-war could not hope to run them down. They did not even try.

  As the pirates sailed past the Rose and the Milford and the Delicia and Woodes Rogers’s other armed consorts, they had lined the Ranger’s rails, howling, jeering, firing pistols, exposing themselves, flinging bottles, urinating in the direction of the men-of-war. It was a grand moment. The perfect way to begin a cruise for plunder.

  Jack had sailed away as quartermaster of the Ranger, and now he returned as her captain. He had deposed Charles Vane three months before, and seen himself installed in command. It was a masterful bit of trickery.

  The Ranger had crossed paths with a French man-of-war and Vane—vicious, but not stupid—had opted to run. It was the only sensible thing to do, as Jack well knew, but some of the others began to mutter cowardice, and Jack saw this as a glimmer of opportunity.

  He encouraged their grumbling, treated them to absurd tales of what he would do were he captain. He knew he was safe from any chance of having to act on those plans. As long as the Ranger was being chased, Vane had absolute authority. It was in the pirates’ articles.

  Once the Ranger had left the frigate astern, the men voted Vane out and put Jack in his place. November 24, 1718, and Calico Jack Rackam was a captain at last.

  Vane was put in a small sloop they had taken, along with those still loyal to him, and Jack took command of the Ranger. It was the position, and the responsibility, that he had always craved, and once he had it he found that it frightened him near to death. For two months Captain Rackam suffered the most dreadful kind of anxiety, trying to figure where the best hunting was to be found, watching his back, listening for mutterings of discontent among his pack of wolves with their tenuous loyalty.

  They had cruised around Jamaica, took a big Madeiraman stuffed full with a valuable cargo. They held her for three days, tore her apart, consumed her best cabin stores. They terrorized the crew, but they did not harm them.

  Jack discovered—and it surprised him—that he had no stomach for Vane’s brand of random cruelty. He enjoyed the power he had over his victims, enjoyed strutting around, using his big sword like a walking stick, making certain that the captive crew understood that he, Captain John Rackam, held absolute power over their lives—that, God-like, he could smite them down.

  And they understood; they believed it, deeply, with a near-religious zeal, and that was enough for Jack. He did not have to torture them or kill them. And with him setting that tone, the others felt likewise.

  They stood off the shore of Jamaica and came to a small island, rarely visited, and there they careened the Ranger and cleaned her bottom and spent their Christmas ashore, celebrating that holy Christian holiday in a wild, drunken debauch. They put to sea again soon after and scooped up a few more prizes, decent captures, but nothing of great value.

  By then the Ranger was a tired vessel. The sea came in at such a rate that t
he pumps had to be manned watch and watch, and there were no slaves or captives aboard to man them, so the pirates had to do it themselves, and they were not happy to do so.

  Her hold and ’tween decks stunk. They were damp and filthy and infested with vermin—so many fleas and lice and rats and whatever else inhabited those dark and moldering places that all the brimstone and vinegar in the world would not free the men from their torment.

  Her rigging was slack and stretched so far there was not much more to take up. Rot spread like gangrene in her spars; Jack found he could pull great hunks of the main lower mast out with his bare hands.

  Jack was tired as well. Like the ship, he felt spent, weak, rotten from within with worry. Every success they had only made him aware that the men would expect more; every prize they took made him think about the time they would see a vessel he did not wish to fight, and then it was off with him, just as he had seen old Vane off.

  He had heard a story once about a boy who stole a fox, Greek boy or Roman or some such, and hid it under his shirt. The boy was stopped and questioned and with a stony face he denied the crime, over and over, and all the while the fox was chewing away at his belly.

  That was how Jack felt. His fear was the fox, chewing, gnawing, tearing at him, and all the while, the stony countenance, the bold pirate swagger. No one had ever seen through it. He was certain of that because, if they had, he would have been called on it. If he had ever shown cowardice in battle, he would have been hung. It was the way of the pirates.

  But what if he did flinch? What if his fear showed, just once, just briefly, against his will, despite all his efforts to keep it hidden? It would be marooning for him: a strip of sand surrounded by ocean, a bottle of water, a pistol, and a single bullet.