Six each, I think, was the tally. Twelve men who died with varying degrees of bravery and skill, and at least one case of dubious suitability for any kind of combat. It was the way he screwed up his eyes and whimpered as he came running into battle.
We heard the running feet of more men arriving and knew that was our cue to escape, dashing from the courtyard, then across the compound, urging the slaves to run, run, free themselves, as we went. If there had not been scores of soldiers on our tails, then we would have stopped and forced them to escape. As it was, I don’t know whether they pressed home the advantage we’d given them.
• • •
Later, when we stopped and I was done cursing my luck at losing Roberts, I asked her real name.
“Mary Read to my mum,” she answered, and at the same time I felt something press into my crotch and when I looked down, saw that it was the point of Mary’s hidden blade.
She was smiling, thank God.
“But not a word of it to anyone,” she said. “Or I’ll unman you as well.”
I never did tell anyone. After all, this was a woman who knew how to piss standing up. I wasn’t about to underestimate her.
FORTY-ONE
JANUARY 1718
Dear Edward,
I write with sad news of your father, who passed away one month ago, taken by pleurisy. His passing was not painful, and he died in my arms I am pleased to say. So at least we were together until the very end.
We were poor at the time of his passing and so I have taken a job at a local tavern where you may reach me if you wish to correspond. News of your exploits has found my ears. They say you are a pirate of some infamy. I wish that you could write to me and allay my fears on this matter. I regret to say I have not seen Caroline since you left, and so I am unable to pass you any details regarding her health.
Mother
I looked at the return address. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.
FORTY-TWO
Well, I know I was in Nassau during that early part of 1718—where else would I be, it was my home—but to be honest I remember only fragments. Why? That’s a question you need to direct to him in there. Him, that little voice inside who tells you you need one more drink when you know you’ve had enough. That was the little man who started hooting and wouldn’t let me pass The Old Avery without a trip inside to while away the day, then wake up the next, rough as arseholes, knowing there was only one thing that would make me feel better, and it was served by Anne Bonny, barmaid at The Old Avery. And then, what do you know? The whole circle—a vicious bloody circle—would begin again.
Yes, I’ve since worked out I drank to drown my discontent, but that’s the thing with drinking, you often don’t know why at the time. You don’t realize that the drinking is a symptom, not a cure. So I sat and watched as Nassau fell to rack and ruin, and being so drunk, I forgot to feel disgusted about it. Instead I spent day after day at the same table of The Old Avery, either staring at my filched picture of The Observatory or attempting to etch out a letter to Mother or to Caroline. Thinking of Father. Wondering if the fire at the farmhouse had hastened his death. Wondering if I was to blame for that too and knowing the answer was the reason why my letters to Mother ended up crumpled bits of paper on the floor of the terrace.
Mind you, I wasn’t so wrapped up in my problems that I forgot to eye up the delicious behind of Anne Bonny, even if she was forbidden to us. (Officially, that was. But Anne, let’s just say she liked the company of pirates, if you know what I mean.)
Anne had arrived in Nassau with her husband, James, a buccaneer and lucky bleeder for being married to her. Having said that, she had a way about her, did Anne, like she wasn’t afraid to give a fellow the glad eye, which did make you wonder if old James Bonny had his hands full with that one. I’d wager that serving ales at The Old Avery wasn’t his idea.
“There’s precious little in this town but piss and insects,” she used to complain, blowing strands of hair off her face. She was right, but still she stayed, fending off the advances of most, accepting the advances of a lucky few.
It was around that time, as I wallowed in my own misery, days spent chasing away one hangover while working on new ones, that we first heard about The King’s Pardon.
“It’s a bag of shite!”
Charles Vane had said that. His words penetrating that midmorn booze buzz I’d been working on.
What was?
“It’s a ruse,” he thundered on. “One to keep us soft before they attack Nassau! You’ll see. Mark me.”
What was a ruse?
“It’s no ruse, Vane,” said Blackbeard, his voice betraying an unusual seriousness. “I heard it straight from the mouth of the greasy Bermudan captain. There’s a pardon on offer for any pirate who wants it.”
A pardon. I let the words sink in.
Hornigold was there too. “Ruse or not, I think it’s plain the British may return to Nassau,” he said. “With arms no doubt. In the absence of any clear ideas, I say we lay low. No piracy and no violence. Do nothing to ruffle the king’s feathers for now.”
“Preserving the king’s plumage is no concern of mine, Ben,” Blackbeard rebuked him.
Benjamin turned on him. “It will be when he sends his soldiers to scrub this island clean of our residue. Look around you, man. Is this cesspool worth dying for?”
He was right, of course. It stank, and more so every day: a vomitous mixture of shit and bilge-water and rotting carcasses. But even so, difficult though it might be for you to believe, it was our vomitous mixture of shit and bilge-water and rotting carcasses, and we were prepared to fight for it. Besides, it didn’t smell so bad when you were drunk.
“Aye, it’s our republic. Our idea,” insisted Blackbeard. “A free land for free men, remember? So maybe it’s filthy to look at. But ain’t it still an idea worth fighting for?”
Benjamin averted his eyes. Had he already decided? Had he made his choice?
“I can’t be sure,” he said. “For when I look on the fruits of our years of labour, all I see is sickness . . . idleness . . . idiocy.”
Remember what I said about Benjamin? How he dressed differently, had a more military bearing. Looking back now, I think he never really wanted to be a pirate, that his ambitions lay on the other side, with His Majesty’s Navy. He was never especially keen on attacking ships, for one thing, which was a rarity among us. Blackbeard told the story of how a vessel under his command had once laid siege to a sloop, only for Benjamin to steal the passengers’ hats. That’s all, just their hats. And yes, you might think it was because he was an old softy and didn’t want to terrorize the passengers too much, and maybe you’d be right. But the fact is, out of all of us, Benjamin Hornigold was the least like a pirate, almost as though he wasn’t willing to accept that he was one.
All that being the case, I don’t suppose I should have been surprised by what happened next.
FORTY-THREE
JULY 1718
“Dearest Caroline . . .”
And that, on that particular occasion (location: The Old Avery, as if you needed telling), was as far as I got.
“Putting some shape to your sentiments?” Anne stood over me, brown and beautiful. A treat for the eyes.