I blanched and swallowed the rest of my wine with a gulp. But wanting to return the favor, I waited for Anne to move off and refill the cups, then whispered, “And you needs be wary of that wench—she’s poison.” Rackham flashed me a knowing smile and winked. I guess some fools just never listen. As we drank and chatted, the rush of excitement died away and I eventually dragged myself off to slumber—leaving Annie and Jack to forge the desperate bond that only the noose would sever.
Now I knew the very next morning that Anne Bonny had fallen for this pretty marauder who later boasted he’d taken her the same way he looted ships, “No time wasted, straight up alongside, every gun brought to play, and the prize boarded.” By the end of the week she’d made Jim move into Mary’s old room at the tavern and promptly took to flashing her new swashbuckler in public. Rackham swore to honor the king’s pardon and then set about impressing his mistress with the shiny blunt she so delightfully helped him dispose of. And I was shocked by the change that came over this stony jade—I think for the first time, ever, she truly was in love. Gone were the spiteful snarls and the bored, angry huffing, the looks of disdain and the snide snippy under-breath comments. Instead we were treated to the long, glazed mooning, incessant bland chatter and constant keen smiles. I ain’t kidding when I tell you this, Annie’s face would physically glisten whenever Jack came anywhere near, her bosom would sheen with excitement, and she laughed so quick and so often I grew worried she’d wear out her throat. Of course, I don’t know how Jack felt about his new lady but they both seemed to crave each other’s approval. She devoured the glamour and excitement. And he seemed to savor the abandon and willing and dare. So I generally left them both to it and went about my own matters. Meanwhile, Jim was doing a roaring trade at the Silk Ship trying to work off his debt and frustration, and wisely steering well clear of his wife and her beau.
Two nights after we’d taken the Calais I walked back from the tavern unaccompanied and soon as I stepped through the doorway an ironlike hand shot across my mouth and twisted my neck as if wringing a chicken. I couldn’t see or think or breathe but I managed to tear my mouth free and scream with all my guts. The rough arms pushed me violently across the room and kicked my stomach as I lay vibrating on the floor. A spark struck the tallow of a candle and in an instant I was staring at the weasel face of Israel Hands. He pulled up a chair and pinned me in place by stamping his boot on my hair. Then he showed off his only front tooth and snarled, “You always was trouble, you pox-riddled doxy.” The passion in his venom made me gasp. “Thought you could take all that booty and not pay the piper, eh?” He slid out a knife and the candlelight licked its sleek edges. I realized that he’d got a bandage round his leg, and from the pose he adopted it looked like he’d perhaps lost a kneecap. But before I could spot any other weakness he was dragging me toward him by my locks like a fisherman hauling in nets. I slid involuntarily closer and closer, clamping my hand to my roots to protect the scalp. When my skull hit the chair leg the yanking ceased, but then I felt the knife cut a nick in my throat with the promise it would slice me a new smile. “Where’s my blunt, bitch?”
I was moments away from an open vein and desperate to bide more time. I squealed, “In the box! The box . . .”
The blade grew sticky and I could feel my own juice sliding down my cleavage. Keeping my head speared on the tip of his weapon he wound my hair tight as it would go and tugged us both on our feet. I immediately turned, felt my head catch fire, and kicked him hard as I could in the shattered knee. He grunted in pain, and the moment there was slack I turned and pushed him backward against the chair. The pair of us fell into a wrestle of confusion but when I heard the weapon clatter to the floor I tussled to loose my locks from his grasp. The pirate seemed momentarily stunned but his fingers were groping to recover the knife. Then he sprang like a squirrel, twisting me over the base of the chair, his arm across my shoulders pinning me to the wooden seat. Hands whipped free his cord belt and bound my bleeding neck to the spokes. I now knelt at his mercy. “Where’s this box then, darling?”
“In . . . in back. Under the table.”
I watched from my disoriented viewpoint as he lit a lantern and hobbled through to the apothecary, making a futile attempt to release the rope at my throat. I heard curses and bumps as he bumbled around, and then the eventual rattle of the chest where I kept my wealth. “By the devil . . . locked!” he roared. I heard him stumping back. He needed the key I kept hidden on my person or it would take all night to saw through that padlock. Hands slid the chest onto the seat by my face and he grunted, “Open it.” But I sensed that the instant I did he would kill me anyway. The light of the lantern cast a netherworld glow on the buccaneer’s livid face. He pressed so close I could smell the rancid tooth and hear the hiss of anger rattling deep in the throat. “Open it, harlot!” To drive his point home the intruder pressed my left hand to the top of the box, splayed my palm flat, and sawed through the knuckle of my smallest finger with several brutal tugs of the blade. I screamed and then started shaking. He moved the knife to the next finger . . . knowing I’d never find future employment if I couldn’t hold syringes or cocks. “Open it—or I’ll cut ’em off one by one to your thumbs and then eat’em up before you!” My wavering fingers rooted around in my bodice for the leather thong. As soon as it came into view Hands raised the knife and slit the key free.
By this point I was bloody and dizzy, the pain like a throbbing sting kicking inside of my temple so that I didn’t really see what happened next. All I recall is a charging roar, a flush of light, and Pierre with the largest smoothing-iron flying through murky air. He hit Israel Hands so hard that a dull crack was followed by a bubbly groan and the pirate fell stunned to the floor.
“Merde alors! Who is this?” Pierre cried.
“Blackbeard’s master, Israel Hands,” I stuttered. “He . . . He came to kill me.”
Pierre patted the top of my head, and then he picked up the splattered blade and cut my neck free. “Is he dead?” I asked hopefully.
Pierre pushed him gingerly with his foot and noted the gash to his skull. “Non,” he announced. “We will have to keep him docile.”
I pushed myself slowly to my feet and staggered to the apothecary. After I’d bandaged my mangled stump and wrapped a neckerchief round my raw throat, I returned with enough laudanum to send Master Hands to his captain. Pierre suggested we make him look drunk, stuff him aboard the next craft bound for Europe, and hope he drowned in his vomit or met some otherwise lethal disaster. And to imply that he’d induced his own sorry state we carefully cleaned up his hair and covered the wound with an old beret. Then we doused his face with brandy, left the empty bottle in his waistcoat, and propped him up between us as we dragged him down to the docks.
A naval ship was preparing to leave on the tide. I shouted to the watch in my best doxy voice, “Ahoy, lads! I’ve brought you this from the Silk Ship—I think he’s one of yours!”
At a time when press gangs would settle for anything no one questioned but that he was one of their own. “Bring him aboard, sweetheart.” Pierre and I manhandled him onto the deck and dropped him against a water barrel. “Has he paid you yet?” some kind soul asked.
I pouted with my sore hand in my pocket and said, “ ’Course not. Why do you think I’m here?” while Pierre mimed the role of disgruntled panderer, pacing and prodding and cursing.
One of the officers felt in Hands’s pockets and said, “Sorry, love. You’re out of luck.”
“Story of my life . . .” I quipped as Pierre’s stiff arm yanked me away.
Now, as it turned out, that ship was bound for England. And we hadn’t actually killed Israel Hands. But the blow to his brain had rendered him stupid and—last I heard—he was begging the streets of London as a beaming fool.
So the remnants of Blackbeard’s crew wouldn’t be messing with me any further—and that was that.
15
DARED THE KNIFE AND TOOK THE BLADE
1719–1
721
After our successful pillage of the Calais Anne took to piracy like a dog to a bitch’s backside, snuffling for every opportunity, even though we almost got found out. See, the French captain lodged a formal complaint with Governor Rogers and when he mentioned the haul was of lavish cloth—and that the demons had spoken his native tongue—eyes naturally turned to Pierre. So almost a week later the governor escorted the captain and the four eyewitnesses to the dress shop. Pierre was bent over the bolt of black velvet, cutting out something for Annie. I was in the apothecary so I quickly locked away all telltale signs, then stood eavesdropping in the hallway. The captain strode over to the worktable and pointed to a cockerel-shape carved in the knob at the end of the velvet roll. He gave a confident snort before announcing, “Look! The coq of Gaul!”
Rogers bent over to examine the brand mark and asked, “Where did you get this cloth?”
Pierre acted suitably outraged and spluttered, “From the captain himself . . . I have the purchase note. . . .” He rummaged through the pullout draw. “Voilà!”
Rogers glanced at the document and stiffly nodded as Pierre began cussing his countrymen in French, waving at the other bolts stacked on the shelves and inviting them to check. Of course, all the prize cloth was carefully hidden throughout Pierre’s other numerous establishments so no other cockerel rolls were unearthed, but in the midst of all the commotion Anne came down from her room alerted by the noise. The crewmen, however, did not recognize the actress without her gory makeup—but the governor knew well enough who she was and changed his tone when he saw her.
“Mrs. Bonny!” he exclaimed. “Pardon the intrusion but we are looking for merchandise recently stolen from the Calais by a cunning band of pirates.”
“Really?” Anne asked innocently. “And why are you looking here?”
“The freebooters were French. They stole valuable materials and vintage wine.”
“And whom, pray, is under suspicion?” she inquired in her best-polished voice.
Everyone looked toward the dressmaker.
“Oh, surely not Pierre!” Annie giggled. She moved over to the men and whispered behind her hand, “Does he look like a buccaneer to you?” She flopped her wrist in a mocking gesture for emphasis.
“Where were you six nights hence?” the captain asked the accused.
“He was with me,” Anne announced, “at the Silk Ship Inn. My husband is landlord there and can verify what I say.”
“At what hour did you leave?” the governor wanted to know.
“Friday? That was the night our assistant got bitten. . . .” She paused as if trying to remember all the details. “She had left to come home around midnight and swears—bless her heart—a ghost ship floated toward her across the bay. Now she’s a wee bit simple and sensitive to such omens, and in the shock of it all swooned in a dead faint and lay unconscious on the ground. She came round to find a huge rat sat gnawing on her finger! Can you imagine?” Annie shuddered at the image. The men looked uncertainly at each other.
“Then what happened?” prompted Rogers.
“Pierre and I were playing checkers when the poor wench staggered back to the inn, eyes wide with terror and gibbering. So of course we immediately abandoned our game, brought her back here, and attended the wound. But it took hours to calm her down.”
“So Monsieur Bouspeut was with you the whole evening?” Annie nodded. “And where is this assistant?” he demanded.
“Lola! Come here!” Annie yelled. I waited a minute and then appeared before them. “Show them your finger,” she ordered. I obediently lifted my left hand to reveal the injured stump. The captain looked over at Rogers for guidance.
The governor nodded toward Anne and said, “I know this woman to be honest and trust her account.” The Frenchmen conferred with each other, apologized for the misunderstanding, and left even more disoriented than when they’d arrived. I knew that having savored the wonderful tang of rash bravado, Mrs. Bonny would be needing that rush again soon.
At this point I’d have to say Jack and Anne were truly in love. And Jim was pissed. Knowing Jim wanted to pay off his debt to Pierre, Rackham made an honorable divorce-by-purchase offer to buy Anne’s freedom. The men had all but agreed on the price when the furious woman appeared on her own account and refused to be sold like an animal. Now, Jim was even more pissed—having neither wife nor money—and vowed to teach the adulteress some measure of respect. Meanwhile, Rackham was making quick raids against the Spanish—because his lover’s expensive tastes were rapidly depleting his savings—sailing with various privateer captains in search of easy pickings. I could tell whenever Jack was back, though, because Anne’s room would stay locked for days. And I knew that it was serious because she wasn’t messing round with no one else.
Now Rackham had acquired the moniker “Calico Jack” because while other swashbucklers reveled in flaunting the forbidden fabrics of the nobler ranks (satins and silks and velvets), he preferred the Calcutta cottons fashioned for him by Pierre. Originally born in Bristol, he now worked out of Cuba, where it was rumored he had several women and a makeshift family of very good friends. I have to say in his defense that he was generous with money, cheery and popular, if at times a little lazy. But I could tell beneath all that flamboyance he was ruthless, just like his woman. See, last year Jack was Captain Vane’s quartermaster but took command of their brigantine after Vane refused to engage with a French man-o’-war. Rackham accused Vane of cowardice so the crew voted to oust their former leader, and as the ensuing cruise was very profitable without the unnecessary cruelties so often accompanying Vane, Jack was readily confirmed the new captain until he took the pardon and switched to legal privateering.
On one of his visits Jack brought along George Fetherston. George had toffee-rich eyes set in a rather determined face, and although he wasn’t flashy like Rackham I found him quite entertaining. He was a big-boned man with slightly receding hair, a jovial, deep laugh, and a joke for every occasion. But what I liked best was his voice—he sang like a thoroughbred gypsy and was always the first to start off the shanties. When I told him I’d once been a dancer he kept asking me to demonstrate this step or that, and soon I’d revived the magic that I’d tried to suppress in my blood. See, ever since I’d lost my finger I thought men would find me repulsive—deformed—that I’d no chance of finding a partner. I was still lithe and nimble, with bigger breasts and shapelier calves, but at that silly age when just a crooked tooth could make all the sweet seem useless. But George made me feel the most special on earth, and for that I will always be grateful. We slid into a comfortable groove, and he ensured that I’d always got a steady supply of patients before that wondrous summer so abruptly ended, when James Bonny decided to have his revenge.
Of course, Jim waited until Rackham was absent before storming into Pierre’s shop, grabbing Anne by the wrist, clicking a flintlock at her ribcage, and forcing her to appear before Woodes Rogers to answer a formal charge of adultery. The cuckolded husband was careful not to implicate himself in any nefarious doings as he lodged his self-righteous complaint against Calico Jack Rackham. The governor, while mindful of Annie’s favor, agreed that a moral example needed to be set, so he ordered Mrs. Bonny to receive a dozen lashes in the marketplace after the coming Sunday service. Anne was so livid that her face turned scarlet—and if Jim saw the rage of her scowl his stomach must have tied in a monkey fist. For today was only Tuesday. . . . Who knew what Annie might do?
I didn’t have to wait to find out. First off, she told me something else I hadn’t known about Blackbeard. In the days before Teach fell out with Captain Jennings he’d built a watchtower on a hill outside of town with panoramic views of the waters. At the base his crew erected their tents and here, apparently, Blackbeard used to conduct business. She and Jack had walked there one day—and agreed that if ever she were in trouble when he was at sea she would light a bonfire on the peak. We set off to spark that signal, knowing there was a good chance it’d be spo
tted because we knew the privateers’ favorite haunts. So we fed the snaking flames long into the night until sooty and hungry and weary. And as we sat staring past the crackling sparks Annie looked over at me and asked curtly, “Why are you helping me?”
I was stunned. I really couldn’t answer. Perhaps because I was used to doing as she ordered? Or because I still owed her some years from my life? What is it that makes the kicked puppy return to its master knowing the welcome will spurn only further abuse? If anything, I guess it was habit—borne on the wind of an attachment my tongue couldn’t never have named. I needed Annie’s acceptance, and the more she withheld that approval the hungrier my craving became. She had some strange power over me, but why that worked so effectively I just didn’t know. Maybe she was stronger and cleverer? Or did I submit in preference to remaining invisible? It seemed that any sense of self came refracted from my mistress . . . and I thought to have escaped that bind . . . but some things never change.
I shrugged my shoulders at Anne’s strange question and stared at her ruby eyes burning in the firelight. “What’s your plan then?” I asked.
“Devil be damned if I take their thrashing . . .” she hissed. “If Rogers wants to mess with me I’ll hit him where it hurts hardest!”
“In the crotch?” I assumed naively.
“In the pocket!” was her retort. Then she rapidly explained the scheme that had simmered to boiling. When Rackham returned they’d steal a sloop and go cruising together between here and Cuba. They’d specifically target vessels bound for Nassau and hold the whole of the island to ransom. As she grew more excited she gabbled that I could come too as surgeon (if I wanted to be with George—who would surely prefer to sail under his friend’s flag), yet we’d have to pretend to be men when fighting or the victims wouldn’t be scared. We’d need at least another eight or so hands, but once word got round that Rackham was looking, there’d be plenty of privateers who’d willingly recant their pardons. And they’d be crew enough who’d sail with women when they realized the hidden advantages. She planned to strike on Saturday—if Jack wasn’t back then we’d sail out to meet him—and my job was to make Rackham’s new flag, a skull above two crossed cutlasses. Annie seemed to have it all worked out and I wondered how long she’d been brewing this scheme.
Fire on Dark Water Page 29