Read Fire on Dark Water Online
Authors: Wendy Perriman
Fire on Dark Water (25 page)
The black-rimmed mouth opened to its widest extent and sputtered a meaty laugh. “Legal?” he echoed. Then he snorted several times, his face wobbling with mirth. “Legal!” And sweat started forming in the depths of his eyes.
I didn’t know then the big joke, but apparently it was on me. Only later did I realize it was the innocence of his thirteenth spouse that so tickled the bigamist’s humor. Now I discovered soon enough that ships are not authorized for matrimony—that no officer on board has the power to perform weddings (unless they’re also a minister or justice of the peace)—and that valid ceremonies can only be conducted by government officials in port. So no wonder Blackbeard was only too happy for me to run away to sea with him. He now had me totally in his power and no one in Nassau to miss me.
After Teach had dozed for a short while he wanted to renew the coupling, seeming anxious to dock every port in my body. And while we were grinding together, the cabin door burst open and two leering strangers shuffled in to watch. I was really embarrassed, having never consciously coupled in public before, but Blackbeard seemed used to such interruption and winked at a man who had only one eye from behind my shoulder. The sailors watched for a time then filled up their tankards from the rum on the table, and the pocked-faced one hiccupped some coarse words of encouragement as they bumbled out the door. As soon as my husband had finished I asked, “Has your cabin no bolt?”
Blackbeard wiped his forehead and armpits on his discarded shirt and replied, “Thing of it is, every hand has equal access so there’s no locks anyplace aboard.”
“But . . . this is your room. . . .” I uttered in confusion. “You’re the captain!”
He settled himself on the bed and explained the differences from a naval or merchant ship. “Aye—but only by vote. And only so long as the prizes are rich.” Apparently the Brethren of the Coast adhered to some democratic principle where each man held equal account with all others. The pirates agreed on who’d be their officers, which routes to ply, the crafts they’d attack, how to dispose of prisoners, and the articles of conduct they’d abide by. The captain had use of the cabin—but anyone could enter at any time and take what they needed therein. Now, all this made my head spin for I realized this would be a very different crossing than on the
Argyll
or on the rumrunner.
Argyll
or on the rumrunner.
We awoke next morning to a jarring bump. Blackbeard loped from the cradle, peed fiercely into the empty bottle and then set to dressing. “What’s that noise?” I asked sleepily.
“If the
Adventure
’s come alongside it means Richards wants a parley, as I’d guess.” He buttoned up his breeches and left me to dress alone. I opened the door a crack to try to eavesdrop while I rummaged in my hurriedly packed sack for my cabin-boy ship clothes. It seemed that Lieutenant Richards was now captaining Blackbeard’s former boat, while Teach and the wounded major settled themselves on the more comfortable vessel. The two crews had been carefully mingled and spread between both sloops to discourage Bonnet’s crew from planning a mutiny, but it seems some of them had issues with me being on board. I stifled my breath and plugged an acute ear in the shadowy door-gap. It was hard to hear the entire conversation over the creaking boards that groaned as the wake slapped against the stern, but I did catch enough to realize I was in danger. Richards shouted up, “Ho, Cap’n, aloft there! Mr. Pell wants a confab with Major Bonnet.”
Adventure
’s come alongside it means Richards wants a parley, as I’d guess.” He buttoned up his breeches and left me to dress alone. I opened the door a crack to try to eavesdrop while I rummaged in my hurriedly packed sack for my cabin-boy ship clothes. It seemed that Lieutenant Richards was now captaining Blackbeard’s former boat, while Teach and the wounded major settled themselves on the more comfortable vessel. The two crews had been carefully mingled and spread between both sloops to discourage Bonnet’s crew from planning a mutiny, but it seems some of them had issues with me being on board. I stifled my breath and plugged an acute ear in the shadowy door-gap. It was hard to hear the entire conversation over the creaking boards that groaned as the wake slapped against the stern, but I did catch enough to realize I was in danger. Richards shouted up, “Ho, Cap’n, aloft there! Mr. Pell wants a confab with Major Bonnet.”
“Yea?” Blackbeard responded. “On what account?”
There was a pause before a new voice interjected with, “It’s in my mind to fetch up about the doxy. . . .”
“Mean you my wife?” Blackbeard asked.
“Aye . . . in the manner of plain speaking.” The voices grew louder so I assumed that both men had now boarded. “The crew don’t like cruising with a woman.” There was another gap and then the embarrassing admission, “Some say she’ll bring us bad luck.”
“What the devil!” the captain exploded. “Superstitious bilge, I’ll be damned.” I could hear the men pacing the quarterdeck area trying to keep up with the irate Blackbeard. Then Teach apparently turned to Pell and roared, “It’s no business of yours if I sail with a comforter!”
The lieutenant was quick to interpret on behalf of his shipmates, cutting in with, “Indeed, Cap’n. I told them they’d all get their turn. . . .” And then he added, “But sight of a slut gets their blood up and sets them to fighting.”
“On my soul, it’s no way to run a cruise!” Pell put in. Then he thought to add, “Begging your pardon, Cap’n Teach.” Then the party moved out of earshot so I’d to wait until they stepped back toward the roundhouse. I think someone described me as “the devil’s ballast,” then all was quiet until Blackbeard’s voice cut through the darkness again.
“I care not a louse what they think! She nursed their cap’n—the major would surely have lost his leg if she hadn’t been a gypsy apothecary worthy of ship room. . . .” There were more mutters that gradually increased in volume as the men began descending the stairs to Bonnet’s adjacent cabin. I quickly shut the door and sat on the bed with my ears pricked and throbbing. I couldn’t hear clearly what went on in the next chamber but I guess Major Bonnet felt well enough to vouch for me because shortly afterward the tars returned to the other sloop and Blackbeard set about organizing his own mob. I stayed a long time shaking on the bed, worrying about my destiny if the men decided to be rid of me. They could throw me overboard—set me adrift in a skiff—maroon me on some desolate sandbar. . . . I realized I needed to become indispensable if I ever wanted to reach Jamaica. And as I didn’t want to be the ship’s whore I decided then and there to be the best damned doctor they’d ever sailed with.
Now, how the work ever gets done on a buccaneer’s craft is still a mystery to me. The men attend to necessary chores as and when they feel the urge—until they spot a likely prize. Only then do they listen to their officers, and only then do they follow commands. Yet somehow or other, the decks got swabbed, the readings were set, men climbed the masts, and they pushed the capstan. We cut through the glittering waters like two boots skating on ice and eventually some lookout sighted a small island that shimmered promisingly vacant. A light wind drew us in to the coast where we came to anchor side by side in the sheltered inlet so the mates could shout across from one deck to the other. Blackbeard took out his speaking horn and asked if anyone recognized this place. But no one did. A longboat was duly lowered and Israel Hands led a heavily armed party to scout the land for hostile natives or Spaniards, and as soon as he declared the place deserted the other small boats were launched to set up camp.
This tiny spot was beautifully located, set far enough away from spiteful eyes. Our sloops bobbed on fathoms as clear as air, and the honey-white sand stretched far as the glass could see. From the edge of the beach loomed a forest sweeping up over the craggy outcrops to the rim of the clouds, and already I’d spotted turtles, fish, fruit, fowl, and a pond of fresh water bubbling from the thicket and pooling by the bay. The carpenter—a chippie called Roberts—declared the timber sound, so we’d everything vital we needed to repair the two sluggish crafts. But what we couldn’t detect were the sand fleas lusting to feed on our unsuspecting flesh, and it was only when the itching began that we noticed the cluster of bites forming from ankle to shin. The men didn’t pay any account at first, while I gouged my skin raw to bleeding trying to scratch some relief. So my first task became scouring the fringe of the forest for some plant or leaf to make a salve.
Now, if you’ve spent any time around seafarers, you’ll know careening is something that needs doing often to keep vessels nimble and watertight. After the vessels are run ashore the guns and cargo are moved and the topmasts taken down. Then ropes and pulleys are run from the mast to the trees so the sloops can be tipped on their sides to expose the hulls. The men set to scraping the bottoms to dislodge barnacles, seaweed, and the wood-boring worms—caulking and replacing any rotten planks as they progress—then they mix a coat of tallow, oil, and brimstone to protect against the elements. When one side is done the boats are tipped over and the entire process is repeated on the other sides. Lastly, masts and spars and sails are mended, the water-barrels are filled, and fresh supplies are gathered as the pirates make ready to launch another raid. This work is supervised by the carpenter and two boatswains, and I was glad not to have any dealings with Garrat Gibbens, for he was the meanest boatswain I’d ever encountered—he truly relished his role as henchman.
But the unfortunate plague of sand fleas on shore severely hindered progress. Now, you’d to look real carefully to see the chalky pests so most of the crew didn’t know they’d been bitten by punkies until the blisters spread to welts. Swashbucklers, of course, are pretty sturdy stock so most of them ignored their reddening flesh, resisting the fatal urge to scratch and allying any discomfort with hard work and rum. Will Howard had encountered these creatures before and showed how to set up traps around our base. We put out a ring of pans full of soapy water. A lantern was shone onto each tin after dark, which magically attracted the fleas, made them jump in, and drown. So after the second night we’d much fewer nips to contend with. I also found out—by trial and error—that the best remedy was to soak the leg in seawater, then rub salt onto each bite to relieve the itch. Some of the men’s sores, though, turned into raised-edged ulcers that I’m told resembled volcanoes, and after that came the headaches and chills, the shivering and bloodshot eyes. Several tars swooned into a dangerous fever so we set up their hammocks alongside the major’s sickbed inside a makeshift hut next to the fire pit, where I could attend them, but why some folks got sicker than others I’ll never know. I guess bodies are made as different as personalities. Blackbeard also developed a rash—but his was a different design. It seemed to begin with a painless sore on his privates that he put down to an unlucky bite, but when it spread to resemble smallpox he joked I’d given him the French disease. Of course I was outraged at such a suggestion—because I knew I didn’t have no spots—so I convinced him he was feeling too healthy for that and when the sores faded to nothingness he soon forgot. Luckily none of the contagion passed to others so I nursed them the same as for marsh fever and by the time we left the island all were out of serious danger, although some of the ulcers did leave a grim, pitted scar.
Yet despite the bugs, after my ankles stopped itching I actually had fun on this island. The days consisted of cheerful work, then at sundown we’d eat what Slouchy the cook rustled up before singing, dancing, and drinking round the spitting bonfire. Blackbeard and I shared a hammock far enough back to be shaded in privacy where I’d set up our own traps against the sand fleas, and when the strange rash no longer bothered his desire we were carefully discreet so as not to provoke further jealousies. Whenever I took a break from nursing I’d chat to the cook while assisting his preparations, and over the languid days we became tentative mates.
I never did find out Slouchy’s real name but he was hired specifically as the chef on Bonnet’s sloop. He was a half-crippled old salt I assumed had been at sea long enough for the damp to have set his bones misshapen. His legs were so bowed he could barely swagger and his fingers curled like wizened claws. So as he could no longer fire a musket or wield a cutlass he’d thrown in his sword for a spoon and retrained himself to be useful. When the hunting party turned up with our roots or meat I’d sit in the shade peeling and chopping what Slouchy couldn’t manage, and he’d cheerfully direct the proceedings among flippant jokes he thought suitable for female ears. Then one day he told one of the tallest tales I’d ever heard, swearing blind it was true and had happened to him. But I wasn’t sure if I believe him.
See, Slouchy claimed to have been a privateer working the Spanish Main when one day his ship stopped for provisions at the unfamiliar Rio-de-la-Hache. There was a settlement of huts, and hoping to take on water and meat, a crew of fourteen rowed the longboat and skiff over to trade with the villagers. The natives along that coast were reputed to be most fearsome but the sailors were hungry and when they saw only one Indian stalking the beach they caught his attention and asked in Spanish if fresh water could be procured. The native apparently understood enough to nod and beckon them to land with a series of friendly gestures. Now, Slouchy had been in charge of the skiff, and after they’d refilled the twenty water casks in exchange for two kegs of rum he sent the longboat back to the ship while bartering for some livestock. The Indian indicated that their animals were herded in one of the largest huts, but when the six remaining sailors opened the door a piercing whistle signaled the rest of the tribe and the tars found themselves surrounded by dozens of hostiles. Slouchy was knocked down, stripped of all his clothing, bound hand and foot, and secured to the trunk of a large tree guarded by a gang of their strange-faced women. Unfortunately, the second boat was still rowing back and didn’t witness the ambush and the crew on deck was too far away to notice. The remaining hostages could speak neither native nor Spanish, yet they understood perfectly the mime show depicting their fate—they were to be roasted alive in the entrails of night and eaten by this tribe. Aye, I know it sounds fantastic, but others have relayed similar tales to me since, so you can take it or leave it as fits.
Anyway, as darkness crept in, the six prisoners were taken to a well-charred spot on the beach and bound back-to-back on three long stakes hammered to secure them in place. Brown limbs came and went piling brushwood in a knotted hedge around them. This was all too much for one of the tars who started screaming at the top of his voice, until the old native rammed a fire-hardened arrow through his voice-box, strangling the terror on air. Now, Slouchy didn’t know this yet, but the scream finally alerted their watch that things were amiss—the crew thought their shipmates were partaking of local custom and would be returning with a fully loaded cargo after dawn. The alarm was raised and the captain launched the longboat with a gang of heavily armed men. He dispatched his boatswain because the man spoke a little more Spanish, and they rowed hard as possible toward the beach to determine what was happening. Unfortunately though, the tide had now turned, and the swell of a mighty current so strongly repelled the oarsmen they’d to return to ship to avoid exhaustion. Any attempt at rescue would have to wait until morning.
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