Fire on Dark Water Page 13

  Her sleepy head peeped round the wood and whispered, “Lola? What’s up?”

  “I need help.”

  As it turned out she knew all about my trouble and said, “Wait next door. I’ll be there soon as I can.” I gave her my chest to hide in her room and, realizing she’d have to get rid of her punter, I quietly let myself out.

  A short while later, Violet came into the tavern and stood with me at the bar. The place was dead that early in the morning and Bobby was busy unloading the barrels out back. I got straight down to business and asked, “Have you see Annie?”

  Violet’s blue eyes gazed sadly into my soul and said, “You’ve not heard then?”

  “Heard what?” I asked. My ears were already closing against the news.

  “Jim and Annie got hitched last night.” My eyes shut tight so they wouldn’t give nothing away.

  “Where?” I managed to mumble.

  “Here.”

  “Is that legal?” I asked.

  Violet gave a knowing snort and replied, “There’s a certain priest will accommodate the odd clandestine marriage for a barrel of rum. Of course, it’s a wedding without license or banns—but a contract nevertheless.”

  My heart dropped into my stomach and was ground up by my intestines. I thought I was going to be sick. But before I could find out any more unwelcome information, the scurry of hooves foretold of a wealthy patron and I had a pretty good clue as to whom that might be. “Master Cormac!” I gasped, looking for some escape. Violet pulled me behind the bar and lifted the trapdoor that slid to the cellar. I scooted down the ladder and lay in the moldy dark, listening with every nerve on edge. There was a good deal of stomping and scraping and muffled voices, and at one point I heard William wail, “No!” Then there was some loud thudding and the door slammed and my ears were ringing and everything started vibrating. As soon as it was safe, the trapdoor lifted and I was hoisted back into the bar.

  “Was that Master Cormac?” I inquired, even though I thought I knew the answer. Bobby and Violet whispered affirmation. “So he knows about Annie then?” Bobby’s sleeve was wiping a fresh cut on his brow that came courtesy of William’s riding crop. He cursed him and muttered something about the whole thing not being worth his bother.

  Violet took my sweaty palm in her hand and said, “He knows.”

  “Did he say anything about me?”

  The young woman nodded and said, “Blames you for everything . . . or at least for not warning him. You can’t go back there.”

  “Then what am I to do?” I wailed. “Do you think he’ll come after me?”

  “Only for revenge—he won’t trust you further.” Violet thought momentarily and asked, “Would you like to work with me at the Red House?”

  No. I couldn’t stay here. So, at the risk of offending my only mate I mumbled, “Thanks . . . but I want to be with Annie.” Meaning Jim.

  Violet squeezed my hand even tighter and sighed, “Well, they sailed this morning for Nassau.”

  “Where’s that?” I asked. She told me it was on one of the West India Islands and that if I wanted to disappear there was no finer spot than on Providence. “How much will it cost?” I panicked. My funds were rather limited.

  But Violet cupped my cheeks in her hands and said, “Never you mind. I’ll arrange our crossing.”

  “Our crossing?” I repeated.

  “Well, of course. You don’t think I’ll let you go off there alone, do you?” She gave me a nudge with her elbow and confided, “I could do with some sunshine myself. And I’m fed up of working for that bitch Elsie.”

  “But won’t they come after the both of us?” I asked.

  “I don’t think there’ll be that much fuss made on our account. As long as we steer clear of Charles Towne in future we’re hardly worth their bother.”

  And by the middle of the week Violet had everything sorted, so that—amazingly—was that.

  7

  LIKE BREAK OF DAY IN A BOOZING KEN

  SPRING, 1717

  We ran into calm, balmy weather aboard the Sea Nymph so it took almost ten days to reach the West India Islands. A brand-new year! Violet had a regular client—Dick Tookerman—who smuggled goods back and forth for the pirates on Providence. He financed the smart sloop we were sailing on that was captained by an odd sort of rogue known as Fayrer Hall. Tookerman agreed to spirit us off in exchange for the entire purse of gratuities Violet had managed to squirrel away in her time at the Red House, a weighty price for our flight. We’d no choice but to agree, and of course we’d then to find some suitable disguise. So Violet was traveling as Mrs. Hall (fulfilling all the bedchamber obligations of a captain’s wife) and I was passed off as a cabin boy by the name of Jake Jones (because I knew something of sailing from the Argyll). Actually I looked quite the part once my hair was clubbed, although I’d to be careful to lower my voice and avoid any giggling. The crew knew we were runaways but they believed I was Violet’s young brother, and they never messed with the paying customers. Violet did a good job keeping Fayrer Hall happy so we’d a pleasant enough trip compared to last time, and I was allowed to eat at the captain’s table after spending most of the day with the sailing master—Sam Clark—who happened to be quite the sea artist.

  Sam told me one day how he was from a ship-building family in Hull. His father was an educated merchant who imported timber, hemp, pitch, and flax, which he used to craft sturdy vessels to his own design. But Sam was the eighth child of ten, and as soon as he was literate, any further education was considered a waste. This was a great pity because the young man had quite the mind. He was curious about everything and absorbed whatever he’d been told like a mop. Sam had grown up on the banks of the Humber and was eager to be on the sea instead of in the shipyard so, much to his father’s dismay, he started sailing with the local fishermen as soon as he was big enough to haul in nets. And they said he always brought good luck because he had such uncanny instincts. Sam finally met an old salt who could teach him the necessary river discipline and he’d soon advanced his skills into a scientific quest. Now you ask any sea dog and they’ll tell you same as me—a good navigator is born, not bred. They’re often considered the most important sailor on board and they have to possess many abilities. Not only must they read, write, and reckon, they’ve to interpret the positions of sun and stars and be accurate remembering waterways. In fact I used to joke it’d help to be part Romany because they’re also supposed to predict the weather.

  This sailing master was a little more refined than the other hardened crewmen and mostly kept his own company, yet he seemed pleased enough to have my assistance, and I think he must have missed the folks back home because he treated me like a brother. And as it turned out, I was quite good at this navigating lark myself. Now, some days the sea burned a blinding sheet of fire and other times it spread before us like a stunning white-hot shroud, but if you were near land you could mark one eyeball and use the natural features to plot a rough course. Once out at sea, though, it all became much trickier. Then you’d to rely on the layout of the heavens and do some pretty clever dead reckoning to determine your speed and position before recording it on the traverse board, which was often one of my jobs. I learned a bit more of what the night sky foretold—something of the layout of the islands we were heading for—and how to magnetize the needle of a compass with lodestone.

  The time passed quickly, and the only thing I’d a problem with was trying to pee overboard like the men. Violet came up with a good solution when she gave me an old boar’s tusk she’d charmed from the cook. I hollowed it out to make a funnel so as I could use it like a cock to secure the deception. Thereafter I always kept it in my pocket. And each evening I’d get to spend some time alone with Violet as the captain made his final rounds or took a turn navigating, and we eagerly shared any gossip we’d managed to glean from the sailors. Now, Captain Hall was quite porky for his age and his nose disappeared between hefty cheeks. He treated Violet right, though, I’ll give him that, an
d he was jovial enough to me with a shameless supply of ribald quips. And he certainly had the respect of his men for there was rarely a time he’d to lash out with anything but his tongue. I guess the crew had all been together long enough to know each other’s characters. And there must have been sufficient remuneration for a smuggling job well executed. Of course, later on there was all that scandal when Hall tried to sue Tookerman over something or other (and if I ain’t mistaken he was awarded the vessel by the court). But this was long before all that nonsense. Back then he seemed a decent enough kind of rogue.

  Violet asked Captain Hall how he came to command the Sea Nymph and was given a little of his background. He was actually born in Carolina but his parents had both been Welsh servants. When they’d worked off their dues to a planter in Raleigh they were finally free but unable to earn a living. Hall discovered the urgent need for sailors so he signed on with various privateers who plied the Spanish Main. He worked his way up to quartermaster and then persuaded Dick Tookerman to let him command the new operation he was planning. Hall soon found smuggling steadier and reasonably profitable, and was delighted his parents were able to shift as much contraband as he could secretly acquire on his own account. And as long as he had the backing of the respectable Mr. Tookerman no one asked any awkward questions, excepting the British Royal Navy of course.

  Some folks say that there’s honor among outlaws but that ain’t always true about pirates. See, as Sam explained it to me, for hundreds of years captains could sail with official letters of marque from the English Crown, licensing ships to attack enemy vessels without fear of punishment—so long as the monarch got a share of the prize. But after the Queen Anne’s War thousands of sea dogs found themselves without gainful employment so it took little incentive for them to go a-pirating instead. Since they took to plundering anything of worth they couldn’t no longer be trusted to attack only foreign ships, which meant even fellow villains tried to avoid their bloody flags. Now, if I remember rightly it was on this very boat that I first heard tell of Edward Teach, although no one knew him as Blackbeard yet because he was still just one of Ben Hornigold’s mob—but as we drew close to Providence the watch was doubled, all throats stayed sober, and nervous eyes peered keenly abroad, hoping to avoid the masts of a Vane or Jennings or Bellamy or Burgess. One of the mates on the Sea Nymph—Potter—had formerly been on a rumrunner raided by Hornigold and was often prompted to relate the story, even though each time it was told with added embellishments. Potter claims there was one pirate in this crew as huge as a mountain who had a beard that reached all the way up his cheeks, and if you dared to look into his fierce dark eyes it was like staring at living death. He carried six pistols about his neck, had a sword in each hand, and he gutted men like a butcher. Potter apparently could swim (which was something I immediately vowed to learn) so when he was grazed by a lucky shot he fell overboard and made his way out of sight under the bowsprit. The remaining crew were given no quarter and ended up reddening the sea alongside him. The pirates stole everything useful, then left the ransacked boat adrift, its sails a mass of tatters. Potter managed to scramble up a hanging rope back on deck and then floated aimlessly for several days until the Sea Nymph rescued him and scuttled the wreck. The lone survivor felt indebted to Hall thereafter. I listened to such fascinating tales and found them strangely exciting, for at that time I foolishly thought that all pirates were simply misunderstood rebels just like my dashing James Bonny.

  Now, I know you’re wondering why I was still besotted with Jimmy, especially after he’d just run off and got married. But you see I blamed Anne for that because I thought she was using him as her excuse to flee the Ellyotts. I couldn’t never believe she had fallen in love with Jim—and not because he was beneath her station for he claimed to be heir to his own family’s purse—but because I know she wasn’t capable of feeling nothing beyond her own immediate thrills. It must have come as a shock when Annie discovered her spouse was a penniless trickster, and a catastrophe to James when word came that William Cormac had disinherited his heiress daughter. For now there was no turning back from the gambit . . . they’d to see their game through to its grand finale. But all I could recall was the way Jimmy made my skin tingle, the warmth of his beery breath joking in my ear, his bone-hard profile that lied of nobleness, and the danger he wore like a luminous cloak. My cheek burned whenever I recalled his casual touch and I’d go over and over our past conversations in my silly, muddled head. But whenever I thought of him with Annie—lying with her under his pulsing hips—I struggled to suck in enough breath to ward off dizziness and my eyes would fill with a stab of pain. I didn’t know then this was girlish infatuation. To me it was real. It was raw. And of course, I thought it was love.

  Somewhere out in the middle of nowhere the sea turned a beautiful deeper blue. Sculptures appeared to be carved from cloud and were tinged by the sun in impressive relief. The air grew warmer. The fish grew larger. And no other flags emerged to mar our view. And then came the glorious cry of “Land! Land!” and I looked from the stern through the fluttering sails at the island I’d soon call home. Providence seemed an incredibly apt name. I was eager enough now to shed off the alien Jake, for Lola to emerge and see her beloved again. But as we approached the palm-tinged sandy harbor of Nassau, Violet grew edgy and grabbed my wrist. “Don’t say aught to no one, do you hear me?” I nodded. She loosened her grip and whispered, “Just follow my lead and do as I do.” When the gangplank was lowered the captain escorted Violet on shore just as if she really was his wife. I followed mutely and kept my head down. But I noticed several of the crew had surrounded us like we were royalty, and that their chapped hands were on the nubs of their swords. As soon as the natives caught sight of Violet I realized why—she had to contend with a barrage of drunken renegades openly leering at her, making vile but obvious sexual gesticulations, and trying to push through the guarding chests for a free grope of her body. We were maneuvered up the beach and hastily taken upstairs to meet the landlady of the Silk Ship Inn. Captain Hall bowed graciously, said farewell, and we were finally on our own.

  Now, back in 1717, Providence had become the choice place of outlaws since Ben Hornigold and Tom Barrow proclaimed the sparsely populated island a pirate republic. It was ideally situated on the lucrative trade routes, yet close enough to sell goods to the American colonists. And if you ain’t had chance to explore yet, mister, it’s a beautiful place full of sunshine and natural splendor, with crisp, sandy shores and sparkling waters (until you get to the parts besmirched by dirty sailors). The small island protects our harbor entrance and creates two approaches—a dual escape route for outlaw vessels—and both mouths have hidden sandbars that large warships cannot cross. There are numerous caves and coves and inlets away from prying eyes, and the hills behind provide a lookout over many a nautical mile. Providence boasts plenty of food and resources, and the chance to rest in safety while enjoying ill-gotten goods. Not surprisingly, it attracts a society dedicated to shifting stolen loot, whether to smugglers, merchants, passing sailors, or in payment for rum and women. And some still say when a pirate dies he’d rather rest in Providence than go to heaven!

  At first the place was little more than a shantytown with a long row of wooden structures forming Bay Street. Then some incongruous businesses popped out of the filth, but the majority of dives are still taverns and brothels where the few working girls ply their wares, and the men come to purchase a smudgy moment of love. The Silk Ship Inn is no exception. As you can see, it consists of one large dirt-floor tavern lined at the far end with the bar, but boasts a rare kitchen and storage room off back, and has one creaky staircase leading upstairs to three bedrooms off a dark, bare landing. Dotted here and there about town, a thriving blacksmith or shipwright services the needs of captains, a coffeehouse caters for those mocking their betters, a dressmaker keeps the well-worn women seeming moderately attractive, and all manner of sideshow entertainments detract the men from recklessly fighting. Back th
en, though, the sailors camped freely on the beach in a hodgepodge settlement formed of makeshift sail tents and driftwood shacks. They’d spend all their booty enjoying a high time, then immediately sign up for another cruise. And if you asked them their expectations, most replied a short—but merry—life.

  Of course, I was used to living down-and-dirty but how on earth Anne was going to cope was quite beyond me. Now, Jim couldn’t be taking his lady wife to no festering brothel (he was still trying to keep up appearances), so he arranged with the local dressmaker to rent a quiet room above the shop. The owner—an effeminate man called Monsieur Bouspeut—was known to the locals as Pierre the Pansy because many a sailor found it amusing that he designed and sewed clothing for a living. But Pierre was a very shrewd businessman who also owned the coffeehouse, hair salon, and Silk Ship Inn—the very place where Captain Hall had delivered us. We didn’t have no money left but once I’d slipped into my feminine attire again the landlady recognized our potential and took Violet to the dress shop to negotiate a deal. Now, it turns out that sultry Monsieur Bouspeut was a sodomite who’d been caught in Paris with his trousers around the wrong ankles. Declaring him a menace to public order, his neighbors were intent on handing him over to the police as a deviant. Fortunately, Pierre was tipped off by another neighbor, who probably just wanted to get rid of him, and therefore he had chance to escape under cover of night. He hurriedly packed his valuables and took a ship to New York, where he hoped to be reunited with his lover. But the lover never came. So when Pierre heard of a paradise where no legal governor reigned, he bribed his passage on a schooner to Nassau and was canny enough to trade and prosper and flourish. The few women on the island liked to work with him because he never made fumbling demands, and the men either enjoyed or tolerated his eccentricities because this was, after all, divine Providence.