Violet’s room was rank with the stench of salty musk. She lay moaning in a delirious stupor with most of her bed saturated in sticky blood. The surgeon put a hand to her forehead, tested for life at her neck, then lifted her wrist to find a pulse. He removed the sopping blanket at her thigh and stared at the dribbling discharge. Then he rolled up his sleeves and set to work. “Boil water and bring fresh rags,” he charged. And I ran off to do as bid.
When I reentered the room he was trying to show the stained stick to Pierre but the dressmaker had just uncovered the tiny corpse I’d left folded in the corner and I could see he was struggling to hold back his grief. “Here’s the bowl,” I offered. And I began to remove the messy blankets from the bed.
“Is there a cup?” the doctor requested. I found a mug and a jug of water and watched as he mixed some potion from his kit.
“What is that?” I asked, curious as ever to learn.
The surgeon ignored my inquiry and said, “Help her sip this slowly.”
“But what is it?” I persisted. I moved to obey his command still awaiting an explanation. The doctor was busy making some kind of poultice to stem the wound and again chose not to answer.
He gave me a contemptuous look and then directed his speech toward Pierre saying, “She has lost too much blood I am afraid.”
Pierre nodded and set about piling the dirty linen into a corner. He wrapped the baby back up into a bundle and placed it carefully on top. “Will she live?” the Frenchman asked. But the surgeon shook his head.
“I . . . I tried to help her. . . .” I muttered in my own defense.
“Well you managed to kill the both of them.” He sneered. “Stupid doxy . . .”
Then he directed Pierre to take my place feeding water, wiped his smeared hands on a clean bit of cloth, grabbed me by the arse, and hissed, “So where is your room then, hussy?” I realized that he wanted to claim his payment. And I was so confused and numb I led him to my bed and melted into void as he roughly took his pleasure.
After he was done and gone I tiptoed back into Violet’s room. It was cold and bleak now that her beautiful spirit had departed. And Pierre and I wept side by side for a moment, sharing her crusted hand. He took the dead child with him to dispose of the shame. And I waited in the growing darkness for Mary to return and show me how to keep breathing.
Of all the times in my life I’ve ebbed at low tide this was the worst I can ever ever remember. Not only had I lost my dearest companion but I felt myself complicit in her demise. So much guilt gnawed an ugly hole in the tattered remnants of my soul and I knew now, once and ever, that God didn’t care a wit for me or mine. After the sparse funeral, Mary and Pierre helped me clear out Violet’s room. They divided her money between themselves—Mary claimed she needed to buy a new bed and Pierre demanded enough rent until the room was reoccupied—and I got all her clothing. Then a couple of days later two new girls called Mayee and Pearl arrived from Jamaica, and Mary none-too-tactfully suggested I should leave. I was in a sorry state and no kidding because I just couldn’t stop blubbering, and as this was the worst turnoff for business I’d got no income coming in. I couldn’t dance. I couldn’t tup. And Mary grew so sick of my hangdog face she arranged for me to move into the garret room over the dressmaker’s shop. These days Anne Bonny was often away traveling with Chidley Bayard so kind Pierre made me welcome and allowed me to help in his shop. He encouraged me to start an apothecary in the back room where he could protect me, but I didn’t have no heart to do anything but sit and sew a mindless needle in line with his instruction. My tears dried up by the end of the week, but the pressing sadness was much harder to lose.
Now, when Blackbeard next returned to Providence I found out quite by chance. Pierre came back from the docks one afternoon with a rolled up parchment that he immediately pinned to the tabletop. I looked down at the puzzling outlines and asked, “What is it?”
Pierre carefully scrutinized the drawing and answered, “A flag for Captain Teach.”
“Blackbeard’s in port?” I quizzed.
“Oui. He arrived last evening.”
“Oh.” I was disappointed he hadn’t sought me out yet. Then I realized he’d probably not know that I’d moved. I stared at the parchment and tried to interpret the shapes. My first question was “Why such a flag? I thought they all flew the jolie rouge—” the bloody red flag warning death.
The Frenchman looked up in my direction and explained, “There are now so many of these pirates they need to distinguish the one from the other.” Then he gave me an insight into the design. A white skeleton was set against a black background—the familiar symbol of death found often in graveyards—that much I understood. But this old bones had horns like a demon to imply that Blackbeard was Satan himself, commonly known as Old Roger. The skeleton held an hourglass tilted in one hand, showing the victim that his time was running out, and a spear pointed down in the other to a heart that was dripping with blood. I didn’t need no other clarification. This flag meant that if you didn’t surrender you’d meet death at the hands of the devil. “Can you cut out the shapes?” he asked and passed me a bolt of white canvas. I nodded that I could work such a design, and was glad of a genuine distraction.
By next noon we’d finished the flag and were rather proud of our effort. Pierre gave his final approval and sent me to deliver the order in person. I was a little wary trotting round the docks without Violet, so I made sure my pistol was loaded and tucked into the waist of my skirt. I was also hesitant to face Captain Teach as he’d never bothered to seek me out. By now he’d probably succumbed to some new trollop like Mayee or Pearl so I willed myself not to expect any special recognition. Pierre had told me how to identify his particular sloop and I found it without any difficulty. As I gingerly walked up the gangplank Will Howard spotted me and cried, “Ha, how’s it with you, darling!” He was looking past me to see if I’d brought my companion. “Corn-head’s not with you then?” I stepped onto the rocking deck and carefully made my way over to his side, then disjointedly told him the awful news. Will continued mending the rope he was working on and muttered, “Mighty sorrowed to hear that. She . . .”
We were interrupted by a booming shout of, “Ahoy, my beauty—it be none other than the lovely Miss Lola!” I spun round and found myself staring at Blackbeard’s enormous chest. He held me at arm’s length between his two hands as if to examine me more closely. “Hearty greeting—to what do we owe this pleasure?” he mused. I held out the package with the flag inside and awaited his reaction. He unfurled the material and yelled, “Ha, Will—look at this!” Then he chuckled deep inside to himself.
I noticed that he spoke differently when on-ship but as I didn’t know any other way of talking I asked, “You like it?”
“I like it without doubt!” he cried. “Wait ’til Cap’n Bonnet claps eyes on it.” I didn’t have no idea who Bonnet was but waited patiently as he climbed belowdecks with my handiwork. Will apparently didn’t want to talk now, so my eyes swept round the vessel and studied the Revenge in silence.
Blackbeard’s sloop had twelve guns and looked like it might hold seventy men at a squeeze—the more anonymous members of the crew I assumed were currently ashore spending their loot. The craft was flush-decked, with no discernible quarterdeck in the long, open space, although there was a roundhouse in the aft that I later discovered led to two cabins below. At the rear was lashed the longboat, and beyond that was the empty staff where my flag would soon hang. The Revenge had a huge single mast just off-center toward the fore of the vessel, which held the mainsail and the foresail, and suspended between this and the impossibly long bowsprit were three triangular jibs. But the mast was singed and splintered and the sails had obviously seen better days. Two cargo hatches opened either side of the mast and the pockmarked vessel—designed for both speed and comfort—looked like it had been in the wars. The quartermaster finished up his work at the capstan and stood awkwardly awaiting Blackbeard’s return.
I atte
mpted renewed conversation by inquiring, “Who’s this Captain Bonnet, Will?”
And Mr. Howard took great delight changing the subject from Violet by telling me all about the gentleman pirate. “Well now, this is his sloop,” Will began. “But it’s sailed by Blackbeard.” I must have looked puzzled because he continued, “Bonnet got seriously wounded on route so Cap’n Teach was kind enough to take command ’til he recovers.” I listened with genuine interest.
Now, as it happens, this turned out to be a very strange tale indeed. Major Stede Bonnet was a rich planter from Barbados who was unhappily married to a shrew called Mary Allamby. The story goes that in order to get away from her bickering tongue the major went and bought himself a pirate boat and crew! Such a thing was unheard of among the Brethren of the Coast, who usually pillaged and captured whichever craft took their fancy. And every buccaneer knows that if there’s no prey there’s no pay—so to be given a regular wage for marauding was really quite the joke. Bonnet, however, was canny enough to hire Ignatius Pell as his boatswain, which accounts for his early successes, and all was going well until he ran into the Spanish man-o’-war that killed or maimed half his crew and almost took his own leg off. The sloop managed to limp far enough to safety and make essential repairs at sea but was so suffering from a lack of command that when Blackbeard spotted the disorganized vessel he swiftly pulled his own craft alongside. Perhaps because they’re both well-read men Bonnet and Teach hit it off, so Blackbeard agreed to command the Revenge until Bonnet was sufficiently recovered. They’d made it as far as Nassau and had stopped to repair the sails and take on fresh supplies. But the major didn’t want anyone to know he was here because the folks back in Barbados weren’t yet aware he’d gone on the account, and Blackbeard was keeping his usual low profile. So I asked who was looking after the injured man and was told that the carpenter had sewn up his wounds as the surgeon had been killed in the fray.
“Don’t you have a doctor?” I asked. Will shook his head and said that they hoped to press someone suitable from the next prize.
“Has he a fever?” I inquired.
“Aye,” Will said. “But he won’t see anyone in port.”
“Would he let me look?” I asked.
Will laughed at the thought and said, “Ha, I don’t think it’s his cock as needs fixing!”
I blushed and said arrogantly, “I’ve other skills too, you know.” Then I remembered Violet and said more quietly, “I know some apothecary remedies. I’m used to nursing . . . and sometimes I can help.”
Howard studied my serious demeanor and decided to take up my cause. “So ho, wait about here then,” he said, “I’ll see what they answer.” And with that Will disappeared into the roundhouse.
Not long after, his head emerged on top of the steps and he called, “Lola! Come away aft.” I walked over to his voice and climbed down into the gloom.
Blackbeard was stood by the bed of the patient. The major was nowhere near as old as I’d imagined but his face was flushed with delirium.
“You come in a fair breeze, Lola. Might you assist Cap’n Bonnet?” Teach asked.
I nodded and recognized the smell of decay. I gently pulled back the grubby coverlet to observe the festering wound. It would need to be reopened, cleaned out, and then stitched properly if we were to save the leg. “I’ll have to go get my chest,” I said. “And he’ll need laudanum for the pain.” Blackbeard gave Will enough coins to pay Pierre for the flag, and then told his quartermaster to accompany me back to the shop. Caesar was dispatched to find opium and fresh bedding. And Teach would supply enough rum to see us all through the harrowing ordeal.
When everything was in place Teach reckoned we’d enough hours of sun left to complete our surgery so the patient was moved to the wooden table and all the windows were opened to let in as much light as possible. We waited for the opium to dull his senses, then Blackbeard heated his own knife over a candle until the tip glowed white before immediately plunging it into a bucket of water to temper. Bonnet was strapped down with ropes across his chest, and the offending leg secured at both ankle and groin. The sick man was wounded mid-thigh—just above the knee—with a gash as long as my hand. Teach took up the hissing knife and with one brutal swipe sliced through both stitch and flesh to split the wound. A putrid stink wafted up from the injury, heralding the oozing pus that bubbled up alongside the blood. I took some of the purest brandy from my chest, poured it onto a strip of cotton, and set about cleaning the mess. The patient stared with buglike eyes at something on the rafters but he groaned lightly now and then, assuring us he was yet alive. I ain’t got no idea how much he could feel but he was sensible enough not to fight against us. Then as I was dabbing the slime away, my cloth snagged something foreign inside the leg so I poked about gently with my small pincers and managed to remove a portion of shot. “Here’s the problem. . . .” I muttered.
When the cleaning was done best as able, I used all my weight to pressure the wound shut ready for stitching. But there was too much blood to work with so I whispered to Blackbeard, “Reheat the knife, sir.” I realized we’d have to cauterize the gash. Now, I remember seeing Dr. Simpson seal skin together this way—and I wasn’t looking forward to the ghastly stench of burning flesh—but I’d never actually done it myself before so my fingers were a tad too shaky.
Teach was about to hand me the knife when he spotted my hesitation and quickly brought down the sizzling blade at the edge of the gash where it needed to meld. He worked swiftly along the hole, ignoring the gurgles coming from Bonnet, until the edges blistered into one bumpy seam and finally congealed together in a blackened line. “Quickly, if you please!” he ordered. “Sew whilst the skin remains numb.” So I used one of Pierre’s fine-tipped needles threaded with some valuable catgut I’d purchased in Charles Towne soon after Anne Bonny had attacked me. Now, I reckon I did a pretty good job, if I may say myself. I washed the whole thigh with water, daubed the repair with more brandy, bound the leg in fresh linen strips, and showed Will how to give the patient small sips of water while I prepared a clean bed.
After it was all over I sat on deck with the crew who were still aboard waiting for the sun to drop. The captain broke out some fancy wine and everyone threw whatever food they had onto a cloth draped over the top of a hatch. So we feasted on goat meat, fish, and bread, then had cheese and raisins for pudding. Blackbeard draped his heavy arm across my shoulders and asked if I was getting cold. I nuzzled in closer and said I was fine, and then he slowly bent over and kissed the top of my head. “You did grand today and no mistake,” he told me. I pinked with pleasure. “Where did you happen to acquire such art?” he asked. So I gave him a potted account of my experiences learning to be an apothecary, and was thrilled that he listened with full attention. Then imagine my confusion when he suddenly kissed my mouth, looked hard into my gaze, and said, “When will you consent to wed with me?”
I caught the swallow in my throat, took a very deep breath, and whispered, “Whenever my master desires it.”
And so, before the next full moon crested, I became Mrs. Edward Teach—as splendidly as that.
10
YO-HEAVE-HO!
MID-AUTUMN, 1717
As soon as new sails were in place and the galleys restocked, we cast off by common consent toward Jamaica. The crew had decided to take the Revenge, and Blackbeard’s original sloop Adventure, to some deserted cove where the vessels could be properly cleaned and restored, so my wedding took place at sea that same first night. I wore my very best red stomacher but was outshone by my husband’s velvet attire and lacy shirt. As quartermaster, Will Howard conducted the ceremony, which was immediately toasted by the already-drunk crew with a keg of plundered Portuguese wine. Then two musicians (Bob Dilly from Bonnet’s craft and Ron Green from Teach’s) set the decks rolling with a vigorous medley of tunes that me and the groom used to initiate even more merriment, and I was pleasantly surprised by how elegantly my big man could caper. Then after we’d exhausted the fi
ngers of our players my master threw me over his shoulder and carried me off to his cabin to a bellow of salty catcalls and hoots. When he told me to turn my back I assumed he was going to unlace my bodice but with a sudden flash of silver his knife cut through the cords of my garment and tore it to the floor. He laughed and cried out, “Heigh-ho, wench. I’ve waited on you long enough now!” Then he thrust me onto the bed and urgently consummated our union.
Now you may wonder why on earth I’d consent to marry a man I hardly knew? Well, let me try telling you, mister. Firstly—you’ve to imagine what life’s like for a whore on an island of pirates. Given the random violence, disease, and disaster, life expectancy is about three years tops, as Violet painfully highlighted, so having the protection of a formidable patron offers a tempting security. Now, I ain’t high-class like Annie so I wasn’t expecting to attract no Jennings or Bayard—but a rogue such as Teach I felt was within my sphere. And then secondly, imagine the kudos of being Blackbeard’s wife! His reputation would give me some standing in this otherwise fragile community. It meant that if ever I’d to solicit again in the future I could demand a celebrity price—I’d attract more custom from the curious (or those with a grudge content to roger me in the stead of my husband)—and none would ever dare abuse me again. And I’ve also got to admit there’s a certain excitement to union with a genuine swashbuckler. My beau was successful and generous and treated me like a captured princess. The glamour was quite overwhelming . . . and the promise of moving up and away.
Fire on Dark Water Page 18