Fire on Dark Water Page 14

  So the three of us reached an amicable agreement whereby I would dance each evening to drum up customers, with the option to sleep with the punters or not, and anything me and Violet made was ours to keep. In return for our beds and a steady supply of patrons we’d give Pierre one piece of eight each per week—a very fair price in that particular market—and he then paid his landlady. Of course I could have probably earned more if I’d set myself up as an apothecary, but I chose not to be dealing with chopped-up limbs and pox-ridden cocks, or the chance of being taken at any time without being paid (although Violet did mention my nursing and herbal skills to Pierre, which pleased me because I didn’t want him thinking I was just another common whore). We soon settled into the pattern of working from sunset to midnight or so, sleeping late mornings, and wandering the island on hazy afternoons absorbing our glorious freedom. We were safe enough on Bay Street, but when we decided to venture beyond, we soon learned the value of securing adequate protection.

  The first frightful day we tried exploring the beach we’d to turn back for fear of being brutalized by those who could no longer afford us. My skirt got ripped by some grubby salt who’d tried pawing my arse and Violet had been half-eaten by a slobbery jaw that forced itself onto her low-cut bosom. She’d had to whisk the dagger from her boot and tease the lusty face away from her chest at knifepoint. Then we’d to parry through a cluster of limbs, spitting and cursing our retreat back to safety. That night we both charged a pistol in return for our favors, which we thereafter carried everywhere in full view. I’d watched Annie shoot on a number of occasions but didn’t really know how to load myself, so we found a former marine on the dregs of his funds and paid him to teach us both. I didn’t seem to have no knack for hitting any great distance but Violet had a steady hand and an eye determined to stick. And so, before we knew it, we’d crept inside our bizarre new lives.

  Mrs. Anne Bonny, however, arrived in a rowdy storm of outrageous attention. Whereas I’d spent my time at sea learning navigation, it appears Annie had striven to shed her genteel manners. She arrived in Nassau as far removed from a Southern lady as you’d imagine—unfettered, uncouth—with a mouth like a bilge pump. As soon as she set foot on land a one-eared sailor grabbed her elbow and yelled, “How much for an hour with you, darling?”

  Annie pushed him off while calmly removing the flintlock wedged in his belt and then backed three paces from him. She lifted the pistol in one hand, aimed skillfully, and tugged the trigger. The loud puff of powder cleared slowly to reveal the mortified suitor bent clutching his gory head. She’d blown off the pirate’s other ear! This splendid act made the Bonnys toast of the town. Within a day everyone knew of the handsome newcomers, and word spread quickly not to mess with this particular wench. The newlyweds immediately set to work capitalizing on the interest they engendered and while Annie ingratiated herself with Pierre, Jim was scouring the taverns hoping to score a place on the next rich cruise.

  Now, being among the few women in town, it didn’t take long for everyone to know who Violet and me were either, nor for us to establish our own rules of conduct. We were able to do this because we’d something the men wanted badly that they couldn’t get easily on this island. So we decreed that all business was to be conducted at the Silk Ship Inn (which meant we were safe from pawing hands on the street or beach), payment for services was made up front (so we didn’t get taken by some mangy villain), we had the right to decline anyone we chose not to accommodate (there were plenty of sick, scabby dogs who wouldn’t entice you for a gold doubloon), and there was no sleeping overnight in our rooms. Once this was understood by all we were able to walk around the port with relative ease. Of course there was always plenty of banter when we mingled on the beaches, but it was now lighthearted and amiable because no one in this strange democracy was expecting—or getting—any special favors.

  One late morning we wended our way through the shacks and tents to examine the shells on the shoreline. Three young men were splashing about at the waters edge naked and unabashed. They waved when they caught sight of us and one of them hollered, “Ahoy, ladies! Come join us.” Violet apparently recognized them so she turned to see if I might be interested too. I nodded. We tucked up our skirts so they wouldn’t get wet and waded through the frothy surf. The three sailors had just about spent their riches and were making the best of the free entertainment. One of them—Paul Skinner—swam in the cut-glass water like a sleek, oiled fish. I watched in admiration as he dived and sank, then pulled on his arms and cut through the sea with ease.

  When he eventually glided back to the sand I gasped, “Can you teach me to do that?”

  The young salt slipped a wide smile and asked, “Mean you to swim then, Miss Lola?”

  I was taken aback he’d the advantage of knowing my name but then Violet came to my rescue and whispered, “Skinner, I think.”

  So I beamed and replied, “Aye, Mr. Skinner. I’ve a mind to learn if you’d be so good as instruct me.”

  He stood knee-deep in the water and held out his hands indicating I was to join him offshore. His two friends seemed miffed that he was getting all the attention and they started shouting comments such as, “Stand by, lassie—Sharkey will bite you!”

  “Who’s Sharkey?” I asked my new friend.

  “’Tis I.” He laughed. “A nickname—”

  “But you won’t really bite?” I asked playfully.

  “Nay,” he quipped. Then he added, “Though you do, indeed, look tasty. . . .”

  I giggled at his flirtation but then asked in a more serious voice, “Do your friends not swim?”

  He shook his head. “They claim the sea is too great an adversary so if they chance to fall overboard they intend to surrender peacefully.”

  “Not me!” I shuddered. I took his hands and asked, “What must I do?” By now I was waist-deep too and as the weight of my saturated dress was dragging me down I slipped off the outer layers and threw them to Violet for safekeeping. I stood translucent in blouse and bloomers. The other sailors began whistling coarsely and they invited Violet to join their jovial party. She kindly collected my wet clothes from the breakers, spread them on a rock to dry, then settled down to watch me drown in foolishness.

  Sharkey placed both hands on my hips and tipped my body so that I was lying faceup flat on top of the water. I balanced firmly on two supporting hands and surrendered to the weightlessness. Above, overstuffed clouds glided swiftly across the skies so I knew a wind was building on the horizon. I closed my eyes and floated with the current. Then the hands abruptly dropped and I sank under a spray of salty water and came up spluttering for air. I scrambled until my feet touched bottom, not very comfortable with the current sucking at my legs. Sharkey was staring at my breasts, and to my horror I saw the material was completely sheer and sticking to my nipples. He pointed out my dilemma to his shipmates, who responded with a cry of whoops. Now I understood why my mentor was so keen to assist me, but I ignored my embarrassment, sank on my knees so my chest dropped below the waterline and asked, “What now?”

  This time my teacher took both of my hands and pulled me off balance toward him. I drifted like a log gliding through the mass. “Kick your legs!” he ordered. I thrashed around clumsily, causing a burst of chaos. “Up and down,” he explained. “As if you’re running . . .”

  Then he let go of my hands and I immediately sank like a stinging wreck. “I can’t do it,” I wailed.

  “Try again,” he commanded. And the exercise was repeated over and over.

  I went through a whole battery of emotion—excitement—fear—embarrassment—determination—and finally I managed to keep my head up as I clawed the waves like a frantic dog. Violet cheered encouragement from the shore. And suddenly I realized I’d actually swum on my own for the very first time. Now, I ain’t claiming to be the most elegant body in the water—I just didn’t never want to be the dead one. So I persisted in dunking again and again until I’d mastered the arm strokes and had some sense
of when to catch breath. By the end of the afternoon I was cold, disheveled, thoroughly exhausted, and burned by the sun, but when we waded back to the sand I gave Violet the biggest smile and screamed, “I did it!”

  “Well you certainly did something, darling,” said one of the sailors, grinning. And they both laughed at the sight of Sharkey’s swollen wood as he followed me out of the sea.

  Nearly every day thereafter I went back to the beach to master my lessons. Sharkey was a good instructor, not only because he was endlessly patient but because he could read my struggle and knew when to be sympathetic and when to push me beyond pure laziness or fear. As my confidence improved he had me treading water and floating on my own, both prone and supine. And of course he frequented the Silk Ship each evening sniffing for due reward. Now, don’t get me wrong—I liked the young man—he was kind and funny and decent. But he was developing feelings for me I couldn’t no way return. It was one thing giving him a quickie after I’d finished dancing, but quite another when he wanted to stay and talk and woo me. Time was money and I couldn’t be giving it for free (or swim lessons) but I didn’t want to hurt his pride. So I’d mumble and bluster and feign politeness when I should have just told him to haul up anchor. But whenever I looked into his sad green eyes I was snagged by his unbearable earnestness. Poor sap. He’d got it bad.

  Meanwhile, as me and Violet were settling in so were Jim and Annie. Two nights after our arrival we all met again this side of adventure on a sickly somewhat-surreal night I won’t never be forgetting. See, Pierre generally hired whoever was in port to provide musical accompaniment for his tavern, so I’d been merrily dancing to a loud and battered accordion. At the end of my performance, as I collected the cobs my more ardent admirers had tossed, I looked up from the sawdust into Annie’s smoldering eyes. James stood beside her, his arm linked possessively through his wife’s.

  “Well, well, well . . . look what the cat dragged in,” Anne sneered.

  “Annie, don’t!” Jim warned. “Leave it.” The wife disengaged herself from her husband and roughly jostled in front of him.

  The testy audience loved a good fight and the air was singed with excitement at promise of a feline fray. I pushed the coins into my pocket and stood mutely on the spot.

  “What are you doing here, wench?” she demanded.

  I mumbled something she couldn’t hear. By now Violet had disengaged herself from the group of hopeful suitors and had elbowed her way through the restless crowd to observe what was going on. As soon as she saw the Bonnys she wedged herself between us and spat into Annie’s face, “Leave her alone, Anne.”

  “Anne, is it now?” the new bride mused. “You’ll do well to address me as Mrs. Bonny.”

  Now even the crowd laughed along with Violet as she roared, “Happen I’ll be calling you Mrs. Trollop. You be no better than me now, wench!”

  Anne blushed in horror at the public humiliation. Then she rose inside to her full height and swayed from side to side savoring the coming strike. The hot, pretty face held everyone spellbound so she turned and appealed for justice, hissing, “This girl belongs to my father! She’s my servant. . . .”

  Violet was unabashed and said, “Lola belongs to no one. She’s free as anyone else here.”

  The heads in the audience nodded and drooled. Then a finely dressed pirate came forward and proffered a low bow to Mrs. Bonny. “Perhaps I can be of some assistance, ma’am,” he offered. I could tell Annie wasn’t sure if he was fooling with her or not but she swept a long, long stare over his attire, then held out her hand for the proper acknowledgment. “Captain Harry Jennings, at your service,” he murmured with lips hovering over her ring.

  “Charmed, I’m sure,” Anne responded. Then she launched into a diatribe of every sin I’d ever committed, painting me darker than Satan himself. I was certain, any moment, someone was going to clap me in chains as Anne explained I was little more than the thieving gypsy slattern who’d killed her mother. I shot her withering husband a plea to intercede on my behalf, but Jim was shrinking farther away from the venom spewing forth from his wife’s alien lips. This was obviously an Annie not loosed on him before, but he’d sure be seeing a lot more of her in future. Captain Jennings listened patiently, still holding on to Annie’s extended hand. He showed no intent to release his grip as he looked at Violet and me, turned to the crowd, then shrugged his shoulders in a patronizing manner. I didn’t see no joke—but the rest of the tavern burst into laughter. The captain waited for the air to hush, then he turned to Anne and said clearly, “Dear Mrs. Bonny—it would appear you have arrived at the wrong location.” Anne looked puzzled as she waited to hear what came next. “This is Nassau . . . not Nantucket!” More cackles of amusement rang out and her blush flushed a deeper than deep hue. “But please, allow me to explain how things work around here.” And he skillfully led her off to his table at the rear. James was about to follow them when Pierre tapped him on the shoulder and gave him a warning wag of the finger. There was some understanding needed sorting that apparently didn’t involve her husband none. As we watched their retreat, Violet whispered in my ear, “You’ve got to stand up for yourself, Lola. I’ll not always be here saving your arse.” Then she turned to a gaggle of potential customers, flashed her best lecherous smile, and drew them back into the mob. I went over to James and led him by the elbow to a shadowy spot where he could sit and observe his wife without attracting trouble. Within the hour the captain had provided enough drink for Anne to be senseless and to Jim’s alarm she now sat on his knee, laughing raucously, and wearing the pirate’s feathered hat. I ain’t never seen this Harry Jennings before so I used my vantage place to form a quick opinion—and, as what I saw there froze my marrow, it must have petrified the quaking James Bonny.

  Captain Henry Jennings was the self-proclaimed governor of the island who spoke with a cultured Welsh lilt. It’s rumored he became a privateer to help restore the dispossessed Stuart family to the English throne. But it’s also whispered he joined up for adventure, having a fearsome thirst for violence. I estimated he was in his late twenties, and he seeped a sticky sort of charm being witty, well-kempt, and wealthy. Now, two years past, a cargo of Spanish treasure sank in a hurricane off the coast of Florida so Jennings took three ships to salvage the booty. He reputedly drove off sixty soldiers who were guarding the hoard recently brought to the surface, and all of the three hundred tars who sailed with him came back fairy-tale rich. But Jennings, formerly based in Jamaica, was warned that his old home was no longer safe so he founded this new pirate colony on the island of Providence, offering safe haven to fellow buccaneers in exchange for a tribute payment. Everyone was welcome—except his archrival Benjamin Hornigold—and Samuel Bellamy—the friend who betrayed him, stole his goods, and then joined up with Hornigold.

  Captain Jennings had a clean-shaven face that was all but hidden by an enviable cascade of springy natural brown curls, and many might call him attractive were it not for the overlong nose that drew most attention. But there was something sharp about this man that quivered of mortal danger, and that was what drew Annie. She had finally found a genuine pirate . . . and her two-bit spineless husband paled in comparison. I took a sly glance at Jim as he sat making a similar assessment. His face was drawn in a weird expression I didn’t really comprehend back then. And for the first time I noticed how small he was, and how the sunshine reddened his cheeks but never tanned them. Perhaps the past weeks at sea had caused the outbreak of pimples popping his chin, but when I looked down at his chewed, blackened nails, and then across at the elegant hands of the captain, I felt truly sorry for James and what he was about to surrender. He was physically shaking but self-preservation kept him back off the marauder’s sword. Jim never uttered a word to me—he just stared—downed his drink—and left the bar with the gait of a beaten puppy.

  Now, probably because I’d been swimming each day I suddenly realized how foul the human body smelled. Of course sailors ain’t the fussiest washers—but then
again neither are gypsies—yet for the first time in my life my stomach heaved from a whiff of vinegar-spiked hair, the gut-rank breath of rotting teeth, eye-watering armpits that hadn’t known soap for years, and clothes daubed in piss, stale food, and sour ale. I wanted to wear clean undergarments so took to washing each week now. And I rubbed my hair in various oils to keep it shiny and untangled. Violet laughed and said I was growing vain—but I didn’t want to stink like a pig or have the mouth of a maggoty fish. I spent a long time pondering why our bodies turned so ripe and concluded that the stench was actually a weapon to keep other predators away. Unfortunately, though, it didn’t seem to work on pirates, who would amuse their passions with anything gamy in a skirt. But some of the more discerning punters preferred my cleaner bed—and those who swore I smelled of sea air were the ones most loyal and generous.

  Now, each night thereafter the Bonnys arrived together, James would drink himself legless, Jennings would appear (or not) as the mood took him, and Annie would either leave on his arm or make her way home with Pierre. The newlyweds had only been married three months but now openly disparaged each other—he, because Anne was playing the strumpet—and she, because Jim was no pirate prince. Then one night around Easter, when the festivities were in full swing and I was mumbling farewell to Sharkey, who’d just signed up on an outgoing adventure, Annie and Jennings were holding court in the center of the room. James was so inebriated that Violet hauled him upstairs to pass out on my floor, where at least he’d be reasonably safe. I’d already earned enough that week so I sat trying to cheer up Sharkey, all the while watching the outrageous behavior taking place out the corner of my eye. Anne and the captain were surrounded by a flamboyant bunch of rogues, each trying to better the other to impress the rambunctious lady. The five sailors were trying to teach Anne a card game and the feast of coins center table attested to the seriousness of their enterprise. At the end of each round the winner collected not only the pot but also a dollop of trollop—a good chug of rum delivered by Annie’s own mouth. She’d take a hefty swig from the bottle and dribble it directly into the pirate’s open mouth as he bent his head back over the chair (an enviable position that also afforded a crafty nuzzle from her cleavage). But she must also have swallowed a fair amount herself judging by the flash in her eyes.