Newton's Cannon (23 page)

With no compass and no land in sight, he had not the faintest idea where to point his prow. Probably most directions would
take him to land. If he sailed south, he would likely hit Cape Cod. If he sailed west, there would be land. Only eastward was there danger of becoming lost …

He knew which way east was! It was a wonder how stupid one could be after a night—two nights, really—without sleep. He went to work setting the sail.

He sat back impatiently, watching for land, noting absently the spangles of sun on the water, the growing warmth of the day, and the gentle rocking of the boat.
How had Bracewell survived?
he wondered.
Kraftpistoles
released a controlled eruption of lux and phlegm, producing a flame much like lightning. His device had been designed to trigger the lux in the metal of the gun to release all at once, randomly rather than directionally. For Bracewell, it should have been like being struck by lightning or worse.

The light on the water seemed to form a pattern. Ben frowned, trying to decipher the heliographic message, blinking often from the glare, each blink longer than the last.

When Ben awoke, it was dark, and thunder stuttered in the distance. Cursing, he sat up, his mind fuzzy. The last he remembered were his eyelids lying like stones, the sun heating them red-hot.

The thunder sounded again, a long stream of concussions echoing across the water. Ben sucked in a few quick breaths, trying to clear his head. He had never managed a boat in a storm, and this craft was not likely to stand a squall even in experienced hands. But a quick survey of the sky showed him stars, bright and clear, and no hint of clouds. But suddenly, off to port, he saw a dozen pinpricks of red light.

And then, a moment later, the rumbling sounded once more, and he understood he had been awakened by cannon fire. Out there in the night, two titans were warring. He saw a jagged slash of light that must be a
kraftpistole
or similar weapon and he watched, fascinated, for at least an hour, trying to imagine the fight. Were they warships of England and France, or were they pirates?

It was only slowly that a chill penetrated his fascination.
Where was he?
How long had he slept? What if he had slept for two days instead of one? He had no way of knowing. His mouth was dry, and his stomach felt like an empty bag. It
could
have been two days. Surely Bracewell had either died or killed John by now. Surely to continue on to Boston was a fool's errand.

But he had to know. He had to return.

He took down the sail, for the night, and shortly after that, the flame and thunder of the distant battle died down, leaving Ben alone with his remorse.

A few hours later, daylight brought him considerably more hope, for land was in sight, probably the cape. He would be able to find his bearing and work back up the coast to Boston in a day or so. He raised his sail and began his first tack shoreward.

He had covered only half the distance when the boat thunked hollowly into something. Ben peered over the bow, and he saw a halfsubmerged barrel bumping along. The hope of land had distracted him, he realized, and now he scrutinized the sea.

Flotsam was scattered widely in all directions.

He concluded that one of the ships he had heard warring the night before must have met its end, for some of the wreckage seemed to be spars and boards.

When he came nearer to the shore, he saw at least three man shapes, lying beached among part of a mast and other items he could not recognize. What if they were alive?

He could hear his father's voice in his heart once more, and he knew what his father would do. Besides, there might be food and fresh water and some clue to what ship this had been.

So he put the boat ashore.

The first man was certainly dead: he lay supine, half his face gone, crabs picking at what remained. These men must all be dead or they would have made some sign by now. But then he thought he heard a shout, and he turned to scan the beach.

He saw an arm waving. The arm was attached to a man.

“Hey there!” the man called, weakly. “Boy!”

Ben staggered toward him as quickly as he could.

“Sure it is that God must have sent you,” the man said when
Ben drew nearer, “for without you I was surely doomed to die here.”

Ben stopped cold in his tracks.

The man—sitting propped against a stone—was enormous, probably the biggest man Ben had ever seen. His shoulders seemed a yard across, and standing he would tower above six feet tall. He probably could not stand, however, for one leg was tied with a rag stained bright red with fresh blood. His black hair hung matted down to the shoulders of his stained white shirt, and his beard—twisted into a dozen or so black-ribboned braids—lay wetly upon his thick chest.

“Have a seat, boy, and tell me your name.” He gestured toward a second rock with the pistol gripped in one massive hand. “Or shall I tell you mine first?”

“I know you,” Ben said. “Edward Teach. Blackbeard.” He began to back away.

“Well, good, so I'm not unknown in these parts. So sit and tell me
your
name. Be a polite lad.”

“I think your powder is wet,” Ben said quietly.

Blackbeard stopped smiling, and Ben met his gaze. Ben saw his death there, same as he had with Bracewell, but whereas Bracewell had killed James the way one might a flea, Black-beard's eyes promised something more slow and painful.
From ice to fire
, Ben thought.

“Listen, boy,” the pirate said very deliberately. “It may well be that my powder is wet, but it may be that it isn't. Cartridges are waxed, you know, just for this sort of occasion. In any event, let me tell you what will occur here if you do not heed my words this instant. I will pull this trigger. If the pistol does not fire, I will draw my cutlass.” He patted the massive sword that lay beside him. “It'll be exceeding painful for me to walk on this leg, but catch you I will, and then I will cut off first your ears, then your feet, and so on. Is that clear?”

Ben wondered if the pirate could make good his threat. It seemed possible. Blackbeard was famous for such feats.

“What do you want?” Ben asked, his voice flat.

“Your name for starters,” Teach answered. “And for you to sit.”

“I'll sit out of reach of your cutlass, if you don't mind,” Ben said. “And my name is Benjamin Franklin.”

Blackbeard nodded. “Just sit so as I can see you. You are a cool one for your age, Ben.”

“Two days ago my brother was killed. The same man did his level best to kill me. I've been lost at sea, and now I've met the pirate Blackbeard,” Ben said. “Just what do you want me to do, sing you an opera?”

Blackbeard blinked at him, then he began to laugh, a coarse snuffling sound that quickly became the roar of a giant.

“Where are you from, Benjamin?” Teach asked finally.

“Boston.”

“Ben Franklin from Boston. Ben Frank …” He raised his eyes, a hint of incredulity in them. “One of my biographers! I'll be damned.”

“I'm sure you will,” Ben agreed, reflecting that the single thing he had ever signed his name to should come back thus to haunt him.

Blackbeard laughed again. “Damned fine,” he said. “Damned fine.” He sat up a little straighter. “Now look, Benjamin, I've taken a liking to you, so I'll tell you how we can help each other. Where is it you want to go?”

“Back to Boston.”

“Boston. And you say some fellow is trying to kill you back there?”

“Yes.”

“Over what, your smart mouth?”

“That isn't funny,” Ben snarled. “He killed my brother. That might not mean a whole lot to the likes of Edward Teach, but it does to me.”

“That's the smart mouth I'm talking about,” Teach said. “I want you to mind it. Now.”

“The hell with you.”

The hammer on the pirate's gun snapped down. The flint sparked, and the powder in the pan hissed. That was all.

“Damn.
God
damn,” Teach snarled, flinging the pistol at him.

“I told you it was wet,” Ben said.

Teach had three holsters strapped across his chest. Two were empty, but he drew a gun from the third. “Let's try that again.”

“Wait,” Ben said. “Wait. I apologize.”

“Apologize to Satan,” Teach snapped.

“I just did.”

Blackbeard cocked the pistol, eyes smoldering, but then he chuckled. “What do you want, boy?”

“You said we could help each other.”

“I did.”

“How?”

“I want your boat, and I'm willing to pay you for it, so long as you help me board her.”

“You'll slit my throat,” Ben said.

“No, I give you my word.”

“Well, then you'll break my neck,” Ben shot back. “Either way, I'll be dead.”

“You seem in a hurry to die,” Blackbeard growled, “rushing back to Boston to someone who tried to murder you. What good do you think you can do there?”

“He means to kill a friend of mine.”

“Your friend is already dead, if that's the case,” Blackbeard said. “Once the officials start looking for who killed your brother, your killer has only a short time. Boston isn't big enough to hide in. He'd finish his business and clear out.”

“That's what
you
would do,” Ben retorted.

“Lad, I'm not often given to advising the young. But if you come through meeting me still alive—if you can keep me from cutting out that insolent tongue of yours—then you're best advised to pursue some other business, because you will have used up all your luck for ten years. It sounds like your brother has tangled you up in something mean—”

“No. It was I who tangled
him
.”

“Well, even worse. If you are the quarry, maybe this fellow would rather chase you than stay to kill your friend. In which case you should lead him far, far away. Now, I'm the fellow can do that for you, see. I can be the man who cuts short this fellow's work, or I can be the one who sets you free of him. Now just tell me which, but don't dither anymore.”

Ben looked at the sea. “If I sell you my boat, how will I get anywhere?”

“I'll tell you that, too.”

“How much for the boat?”

“Two hundred English pounds.”

Ben stared at him. “I don't believe you.”

“That fee includes you loading the boat with any provisions— including water—that have washed up here, and it includes you carrying me down to the boat.”

“No,” Ben said, and then, firmly, “No,
sir
. I'll sell you the boat, and I'll load the provisions. Then I'll cut you a crutch so you can get to the boat. More than that I won't do.”

“Agreed. Load up my boat and I'll tell you where to get the money.”

“And where to go from here.”

“And where to go,” Blackbeard replied.

It didn't take very long to load everything useful on the beach into the boat. The heaviest was a half cask of rum, of which Blackbeard demanded a cup the instant Ben found it. He found some ship's provisions. Besides that, there were two crates the pirate insisted on taking with him.

When all was loaded, Ben edged cautiously back toward Teach. The pirate regarded him for a long moment but didn't raise his pistol. “My crutch,” he said.

“My money,” Ben replied.

The pirate reached into the ample pockets of his gray coat. He withdrew a sack and tossed it at Ben's feet. It jingled. “There, damn you,” Teach said.

Ben counted the sterling on the way to the forest edge. It came to just two hundred pounds. Using a jackknife Teach had given him he laboriously cut a sapling with a forked crotch and trimmed it into a rude crutch. He threw it to Blackbeard from fifteen yards away.

“There,” he shouted.

Blackbeard nodded, raised his pistol, and pulled the trigger. There was an enormous explosion and a plume of black smoke puffed toward Ben like dragon's breath.

“Double damn!” Blackbeard snarled, as Ben felt his chest and found no wound. “One day they'll make a pistol as can
hit
something.”

“The hell with you, Edward Teach!” Ben snapped.

“Don't take it personal, boy.” With that, Blackbeard lurched up, with the help of the crutch, and began hopping toward the boat. When the pirate reached the little craft, he turned to shout back at Ben. “Wait till I'm out of sight, then light a fire. If you do it while I'm still in sight, I'll come back and kill you, I swear it.”

It seemed possible. He had moved more nimbly on his crutch than Ben had guessed he would.

Watching the sail grow smaller, Ben hoped that the hole he had made in the boat would be slow to show itself. He had stuffed it tight with a plug of hard bread; it wouldn't let water in until the bread had dissolved.

When he couldn't see the sail anymore, he did as Blackbeard had suggested and built a fire with the remaining wood and some deadfall from the forest. He lit it using now-dry powder from the flintlock Blackbeard had flung down. After the fire was going steadily, he watched from the shelter of a large elm, ready to hide deeper in the woods.

Near sundown, he saw the sails of an approaching frigate flying the King's Jack.

“That was clever thinking, I'll be bound,” Captain Caldwell told him.

“I saw the battle the night before,” Ben explained.

“That was the
Champion
,” Caldwell said. “She went down with all hands. We lost them both in the dark and came too late to help.” He gritted his teeth. “We'll get Teach, though. Come hell or the deep blue sea, we'll get him.”

Ben nodded tiredly.

“Boston lad, eh?” the captain went on. “How do I know you aren't a pirate yourself?” Then he laughed at Ben's expression. Ben found he was quickly tiring of the laughter of seamen. “Never fear, lad,” the captain went on. “You don't have the
look, the clothes—in short, I believe you. But if you have any idea where Teach was headed …”

Ben shrugged. “I hulled his boat, but he may have been able to fix that. He certainly didn't tell me where he was headed.”

“No, I shouldn't think he would. Smart thinking, to sabotage his craft. Should make it easier to find him.”

“Pardon me, sir,” Ben said. “But where will you put in to port next?”

“After we find Teach? Then it's Philadelphia.”