Fire on Dark Water Read online

  The master came back to the shop from Thanksgiving through to Easter and we had jolly evenings by the kitchen fire, telling stories, singing ditties, or playing clever card games. One early morning Anne caught me creeping back from her father’s chamber. Her bone-hard stare took in my crumpled nightgown, instantly assessed the situation, and crinkled into a smirk. She raised her eyebrows—Well, well, well—and emitted the tiniest grunt of disgust. Then she turned away and never, ever referenced my nocturnal ramblings again.

  During those winter months William made fewer demands on my time, but we girls couldn’t get away much on account of the business transactions he supervised at the docks. Even though we both knew he traded with privateers we didn’t think he’d much approve of our visits to the wharves, so most of that period was spent renovating the now-vacated second floor in preparation for the parties next year. The master’s old bedroom was lavishly converted into a gilt and marble great room, its dual fireplaces adequate for grand dinners and intimate dances. Glass doors opened onto a wrought-iron balcony overlooking the street, and on lucky nights the dappled moon would hang in the gap like a lantern. The master imported a wonderful new instrument called a pianoforte, but as it was too cumbersome to bring up the stairs, it had to be hoisted on ropes and pulleys up to the balcony and installed through the large glass doors. Behind the great room was a formal lounge with tapestry sofas and ornate tables—and under my chamber was the master’s study, where the men would retire to partake of pipes and brandy. And before we knew it, there were only six months left until the debut season was to open.

  Now, in those early days there wasn’t no organized debutant cotillion like they have back in England. All eligible ladies between the ages of fourteen and eighteen were invited to attend as part of the Circuit, alongside any bachelor gentlemen. The debutants took afternoon teas at each person’s home, followed by an informal dinner party and dancing. And after this flurry of coming-out events (where potential partners were flirted with, tested, and assessed), the participants were expected to marry. Annie had hired her own Italian dressmaker to produce a stunning array of gowns and petticoats. And she also employed the services of a French dancing master to teach her sufficient grace to gild her more-obvious charms. Of course, I found the lessons enchanting and wished it was me being led on the divine tunes wafting from out of that musical box. But unfortunately Annie didn’t have no discipline, so after a frightful hour with Monsieur Lafayette and his surly pianist, she’d spend the rest of the morning swinging me roughly about the ballroom floor, trying to work off her embarrassment and frustration. One day Anne asked me what other dances I knew so I gave her a sample of my old repertoire (minus the Dance of Veils). She looked at me through wider pupils from then on, finally aware of my talent. And once she realized I might have something worth learning she actually let me teach her the formal steps.

  Meanwhile, I’d managed to see Violet (with and without Annie) at least once a week. She showed me around the docks, pointing out where it was safe to tread and where a young girl should never venture alone. As we dotted about the wharves, men would grin, tip their hats, or shout to Violet, and she always answered in kind with a smile, small bow, or witty retort. She was obviously very popular. And I was proud to be her friend and to bask in their general approval. One fateful day the pair of us stopped for a sup of ale on Bay Street—and that’s when I first laid eyes on the dashing James Bonny. Violet stood chatting to the barman while I blended into the wood and quietly surveyed the scene. It was very much like an English pub, except nearly all of the patrons were buccaneers, which I recognized straight off from the sooty crosses etched in their skin and the evidence of past plunder: gold rings, ear hoops, jeweled buckles, and fancy chains. Most wore recognizable sailor’s kit—petticoat breeches or Monmouth caps—but their traditional gear had also acquired the telltale silk sashes and velvet waistcoats. First off, I was terrified to be among this band of thieves, but Violet assured me I’d be perfectly safe, and later she showed me the dagger hid inside her boot. As I watched I became increasingly mesmerized by the banter and merrymaking, having never seen so much fun since my gypsy days. Rum and ale flowed freely as air, and every so often a fight would break out to a stomp of cheers. And I couldn’t tear my eyes from that handsome rascal in the corner, Jim Bonny. He was twenty years old. A pirate. The first bloke to ever break my heart.

  James Bonny was from Liverpool so he spoke with a funny tongue, but you’d forgive him that just to hear him up close because he was so cheeky and charming. As he sat staring moodily into his tankard I got the chance to take in his wheat-colored hair and elegant features, but when he raised his head and stared at me with metallic eyes I felt the quicksilver drowning my senses. The moment I thought he flashed me a grin I grew flustered and anxiously turned to Violet for a cue. But she was engrossed in some deal or other so I stared at the floor and tried to appear disinterested. Next thing I knew he was making his way across to the bar in his cocked hat and had placed an arm around Violet’s waist. She turned to acknowledge him and my heart felt leaden because I could see that she liked him too. He nodded to me and said, “Hey up, Vi. And who’s your friend here?”

  “Jim—this is my mate Lola. But she’s only fourteen and off-limits.” I was embarrassed to be treated as a child in such company and subtly kicked Violet on the ankle. Meantime, the young sailor had removed his hat and was performing an elaborate bow to the words, “James Bonny, at your service.”

  I giggled and replied, “Lola Blaise, pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.”

  Violet shrugged her shoulders and turned back to complete her transaction at the bar. James asked for another drink and then decided to amuse himself at my expense by winningly drawing my moth to his flame. Before we left that day he’d discovered that I worked for William Cormac and assured me most sincerely that he’d be in here every afternoon until he found a new cruise, and that I’d always be welcome to keep him company. Looking back, I suppose it wasn’t no hard task to impress me. And I’d been truly fiercely plundered.

  Now Romany women have prospered for hundreds of years by studying human nature. We observe and learn. Who can be trusted for fairness? What type of person makes a good mark? Which words elicit the greatest reward? So it ain’t no surprise that I took to studying pirates. Now, I’m sure you think, like I used to, that they’re all just a bunch of bloodthirsty rogues but I soon discovered that there are many different types of buccaneer. Take James Bonny, for example. He’d been born in Liverpool to a carpenter who had the misfortune to be press-ganged for the navy at the start of the Queen Anne’s War. It’s said the frigate got sunk near Flanders, but his headstrong son joined up soon as possible to try to find his lost father. James worked as a powder-monkey (running gunpowder and shot to the sailors manning the warship’s cannons) until he’d learned enough to become an ordinary seaman. By sixteen he’d made able seaman, but when the war ended in 1713 he found himself unemployed. A couple of years later he signed up with Captain George Lowther, a small-time pirate operating along the Carolina coast. Their Happy Delivery would follow a suitable merchantman until out of sight from safe harbor, then ram into the prize so the men could board and loot it. But when Lowther set sail for the West India Islands Jim decided to wait out the winter in Charles Towne because—as it turns out—he was seeking a richer treasure.

  Of course, I’m old enough now to know all this mushy love stuff is just one big fairy tale that I think men invented to keep women stupid and dependent. But try telling that to a star-struck young heart out on its first adventure! I was besotted. All I could think about was my James, Jim, Jimmy. What should I wear to entice him? What could I say to impress him? What might I do to win his affection? Each afternoon I’d find some errand that meant I could swing by Bay Street. Sometimes Violet would be sat chatting with him—and then I was torn between pleasure and dismay—but usually I’d join him alone at the table and let him buy me a tankard. Jim was ever a gentleman, and although
he was warm and welcoming he never made any move. I couldn’t never understand what was going on. I flirted with my wickedest looks, danced beautifully when anyone struck up the accordion, suggested remedies for every ailment he mentioned, and hinted that I had experience enough to pleasure him. But while other men pined for my lithe, thin body, or envisaged my rich wavy ringlets billowing over their pillows, he treated me like a sibling or shipmate, never giving more than a wink and a kiss on the cheek. Weeks of frustration went by.

  One still afternoon in October the tavern was much more crowded than usual on account of the increase in townfolks readying for the debut season. I pushed my way to the usual spot but was stunned to find James nowhere in sight. Violet beckoned me to join her table where a group of raucous wenches from the brothel were making merry, so I squished myself on the edge of their bench beside them. The young men around were boasting which parties they were attending and then I spotted an unwelcome face in the crowd. Lieutenant Aaron Ellyott stood in the corner surrounded by a large fence of drunken young gentlemen. Several other patrons sported various uniforms—and I suddenly realized why the prostitutes were out—and why the pirates had gone into hiding. Lascivious banter flew across the sawdust until, one by one, the ladies at the table left to ply their trade. I kept a watchful eye on Ellyott, confident he wouldn’t never remember me. A couple of hopeful suitors tried to engage Violet but she cleverly put them off without offending, and then I heard the lieutenant’s voice rising over the swell. When his friend mentioned Annie’s name I picked up both tankards and edged toward the overworked barmaid on the pretext of acquiring refills. Ellyott was talking excitedly to a young planter who was yelling, “I hear that William Cormac has imported a pianoforte for his daughter’s ball!”

  “Really?” Ellyott replied. “And what have the Middletons arranged for Martha?”

  “Her father has engaged an Austrian quartet, so I am told.”

  “Will you be at both parties?” the lieutenant asked.

  “No, I am afraid not. Middleton will not let Martha attend anything at the Cormac home.”

  “And pray, sir, why not?” Ellyott shouted.

  “Well, it seems he does not approve of Cormac’s trading with privateers and pirates. . . .” his comrade said.

  “But every merchant prefers to bypass those damned English custom duties . . . it means cheaper goods for everyone.”

  “That is as may be, my friend. But Middleton does not want his daughter mixing in such company.” The young man caught the barmaid’s arm and indicated she was to refill all the mugs in their circle too.

  Then another youth in their crowd said, “Pity you will not be there, Pinckney. I hear Mistress Anne is quite the beauty.”

  Flushed by alcohol and unpleasant vengeance Lieutenant Ellyot said pointedly, “She is quite the buxom slattern and no mistaking. Arse like a firm ripe peach!”

  His companions gasped at his intoxicated inference and someone muttered, “You have not . . . ?”

  Elliott winked lewdly and added, “She decided to come out early—just for me!”

  As the gang exploded into scandalized whoops the blood set to flame in my veins.

  I told Violet I was off, and ran from the tavern as fast as my boots would carry me home.

  Annie had been selecting evening wear and when I burst into the room I saw a crop of brocade stomachers were scattered about the floor amidst a splash of taffeta gowns. She could tell from my face something dreadful had happened and I shuddered underpressure of bearing the message of duplicity and doom. But I couldn’t never do it! It meant the ruin of all their expensive plans—that Annie was now not eligible—that no one would come to their parties and teas—humiliation—embarrassment—disgrace.

  Anne discarded the silk petticoat she was holding and stood waiting, but my out-of-breath gasps turned to panic-filled sobs and I couldn’t get no sense out. The mistress marched over and shook my arm as if violence would spill forth the terrible news.

  “What is it?” she cried. “What on earth has happened?”

  Bubbles of spittle popped from my terrified lips but I wanted to be in denial as long as I could so I murmured, “No . . . I . . . I can’t. . . .”

  Annie, now at the limit of her precarious patience, slapped me across the cheek.

  I writhed from her grip still unable to disclose. Then, before I had chance to even rub my face, she had picked up the shears used to unwrap her treasures and held the points against my neck. “Speak up!” she commanded. “Or I shall rip the words from your mangy throat. . . .”

  I was stuck on the tips of her blade, petrified, so I stuttered out a garbled version of the lieutenant’s public boast. It took several strained seconds for the implication to prick Annie’s aspirations before she turned from me in dismay, and before my mind could register what was happening she had swung back—full force—and stabbed the blades of the shears into my shoulder just above the left breast. Her face was screwed up in rage screaming, “Nooo . . . !”

  Looking back now, it all happened like a slow, drunken memory. I saw a sail of strawberry hair flash across space, and then felt a burning plunge bite deep in my flesh. I stared, still as a woodblock, looking at the protruding handles vibrating from the force and vaguely noting the froth of blood fizzing around the metal. I instinctively made to pull the shears free, then remembered that they were corking the wound and it was best to leave them in place. My body went icy cold and then grew lighter and lighter until I thought I was going to float away. I crumpled to my knees whimpering in pain. I looked up into Annie’s eyes—and the light that I saw there terrified. Her whole face was shining in strange fascination. She looked ecstatic and somehow sated. She made no attempt to catch me, but backed far enough away to take in the glow of her act. And that scared me far more than the blades sticking out from my chest so I started screaming with all of the wind I could muster, and then Annie was moaning too in a lost voice that sounded like wolf howl.

  The commotion brought Joshua up from the shop. He took one look at the scissor handles and ran to find the master, but by the time her father appeared Annie had collapsed on the floor and was curled up in a tight ball, bawling great angry curses between hiccups and sobs. Mrs. Drayton was called to take me to the apothecary so I could be properly attended. And Annie was left to break the news that her debut had been maliciously cancelled.

  Dr. Haskell did a neat job fixing the wound that would eventually heal to a wiggly scar. Years later I had this here anchor tattoo done to cover it—see, mister? Anyway, next day when things had calmed down a bit Annie came and gave me the third degree. I was still feeling woozy on account of the opium administered for the stitching so I answered vaguely without guile or caution. Her voice was pounding somewhere between my ears and eyes asking where had I seen Ellyott? Did I recognize who he was with? Might he be there again this evening? And before she’d even considered the consequences—or perhaps because she didn’t have nothing left to lose—she’d marched me off with grim-set lips to seek out and confront him.

  Now, as it happened, the herd of young hopefuls was otherwise engaged that day so when we got to the tavern the sea robbers were back there in force. I immediately turned to take Annie home because I was still feeling very sore, but she was mesmerized by the lip-tingling scene before us and insisted that as we’d come all this way we may as well stop for a drink. By now I’d become friendly with a few of the locals so I reckoned we’d be safe enough from any wandering eyes (and I also knew Bobby the barman kept a loaded musket handy). As we walked in the den the crowd opened up to let us pass, whistling and hooting at the new beauty in their midst. I ignored all shouts of “Who’s your mate, Lola?” and “Aren’t you going to introduce me?” and steered us to a bench close enough to the door to scat if necessary. Annie’s eyes were large as cartwheels as she took in the motley swaggers and taunts. We slowly sipped our ale but when I turned to check out who was there I couldn’t see nothing for the throng of suitors clamoring for her
attention.

  One bird-bent hand reached over the table and wobbled before Anne’s bodice as if to fondle her breast, but just as the blackened nails touched lace, there was a scuffle and the wandering arm was roughly yanked aside. I heard Jim’s voice yell, “Bail out, matey. Don’t you know how to treat a lady?” The manhandled sailor swore back and the table tipped over in the ensuing brawl. I grabbed Annie’s arm and pulled us both outside, but instead of beating a safe retreat, my mistress insisted we stay and watch the fray. We couldn’t see much through the thick, murky windows, yet we got an occasional glimpse of the mayhem when we dared peer in the doorway. Numerous bodies dived into the fight, some trying to relieve their pent frustrations and others valiantly aiming to part the opponents before anyone got stabbed or shot. Eventually the bawdy suitor was restrained by a pair of regulars and the barrel of Bobby’s musket, and Jim was persuaded to turn away in favor of a free mug of ale. The landlord righted the table and the room returned to its regular josh and tipple. Annie stood outside in the street and asked, “Who was the sailor that rescued me?”

  I said boldly, “That’d be my mate, James Bonny.”

  A bright curiosity came into the young woman’s eyes and she said, “Introduce me. I wish to thank my champion.” So I trotted back with Annie in tow and did as I was bid. Jim was none the worse for wear—if anything the tussled hair and swollen lip made him look even more striking.

  As I uttered the formalities Jim lifted Annie’s white hand to his kiss and murmured, “James Bonny at your service, ma’am.”

  But this time when I stared across at his silver-gray eyes I saw they were glowing with molten lust. I’d waited many long weeks to see such desire but unfortunately it wasn’t intended for me. In an instant he and Annie had fused. And I’d lost them both. Forever.

  During that same dreadful day Master William had again ridden to the Ellyott Estate to vent his fury and this time there’d be no appeasing him with liquor or veiled economic threats. William was out for blood. Now, there ain’t no telling exactly what happened between the two masters but when I finally got Annie back to the shop that damp evening we sat awaiting his return with great trepidation. My shoulder was hurting something terrible so I asked to be excused to go to bed, but Anne wouldn’t hear of it and insisted I stay with her to learn the verdict. Joshua kindly slipped me another draught of the master’s laudanum and that made the throbbing tolerable, but by the time William appeared I could barely keep my lids wedged open. I remember that it had rained heavily—because his clothes started steaming as he stood near the fire—and his face was red to bursting wanting to spill the news. After the usual greetings and settling in he looked at his anxious daughter and said, “Well, my dear, it has all been set to rights.”