Assassin's Creed: Black Flag (23 page)

SEPTEMBER 1719

Damn the man. Damn Roberts.

He wanted me to wait two months.
Two whole months.
Then meet him west of the Leeward Islands, east of Puerto Rico. With only his word to take for that, I sailed the
Jackdaw
back to San Inagua. There I rested the crew for a while, and we took prizes when we could, and my coffers swelled, and it was during that period, I think, that I cut off the nose of the ship’s cook.

When we weren’t taking prizes and when I wasn’t slicing off noses, I brooded at my homestead. I wrote letters to Caroline in which I assured her I would soon be returning as a man of wealth, and I fretted over The Observatory, only too aware that with it lay all my hopes of a fortune. It was built on nothing more than a promise from Bartholomew Roberts.

And then what? The Observatory was a place of enormous potential wealth but even if I found it—even if Bart Roberts came good on his word—it remained only a source of
potential
wealth. Wasn’t it Edward who had scoffed at the very idea? Gold doubloons was what we wanted, he’d said. Perhaps he was right. Even if I found this amazing machine, how the bloody hell was I going to convert it into the wealth I hoped to acquire? After all, if there were riches to be made, then why hadn’t Roberts made them?

Because he has some other purpose.

I thought of my parents. My mind went back to the burning of our farmhouse and I thought anew of striking a blow at the Templars, this secret society who used its influence and power to grind down anyone who displeased it; to exercise a grudge. I still had no idea exactly who was behind the burning of my farmhouse. Or why. Was it a grudge against me for marrying Caroline and humiliating Matthew Hague? Or against my father, mere business rivalry? Probably both, was my suspicion. Perhaps the Kenways, these arrivals from Wales, who had shamed them so, simply deserved to be taken down a peg or two.

I would find out for sure, I decided. I would return to Bristol one day and exact my revenge.

On that I brooded too. Until the day came in September when I gathered the crew and we readied the
Jackdaw
, newly caulked, its masts and rigging repaired, its shrouds ready, its galley stocked and the munitions at capacity, and we set sail for our appointment with Bartholomew Roberts.

 • • • 

Like I say, I don’t think I ever truly knew what was on his mind. He had his own agenda and wasn’t about to share it with the likes of me. What he did like to do, however, was keep me guessing. Keep me hanging on. When we’d parted he’d told me he had business to attend to, which I later found out involved taking his own crew back to Principé and exacting his revenge for the death of Captain Howell Davis on the people of the island.

They’d attacked at night, put to the sword as many men as they could, and made off, not only with as much treasure as they could carry but the beginnings of Black Bart’s fearsome reputation: unknowable, brave and ruthless, and apt to carry off daring raids such as the one we were about to carry out, for example. The one that began with Roberts insisting that the
Jackdaw
join him on a jaunt around the coast of Brazil to the Todos os Santos Bay.

We didn’t have long to find out the reason why. A fleet of no less than forty-two Portuguese merchant ships. What’s more, with no navy escorts. Roberts lost no time in capturing one of the outlying vessels to “hold talks” with the captain. It wasn’t something I got involved with, but from the bruised Portuguese naval officer he’d learnt that the flagship had on it a chest, a coffer that, he told me, contained “crystal vials filled with blood. You may remember.”

Vials of blood. How could I forget?

 • • • 

We anchored the
Jackdaw
and I took Adewalé and a skeleton crew to join Roberts on his purloined Portuguese vessel. Up to now we’d remained at the fringes of the fleet, but now it seemed to split up, and we saw our chance. The flagship was testing her guns.

Anchored some distance away, we watched, and Bartholomew looked at me.

“Are you stealthy, Edward Kenway?”

“That I am,” I said.

He looked over to the Portuguese galleon. It was anchored not far from land, with most of the crew on the gun-deck firing inland, carrying out exercises. Never was there a better time to steal aboard, so at a nod from Bart Roberts I dived overboard and swam to the galleon, on a mission of death.

Climbing up a Jacob’s ladder I found myself on deck, where I moved quietly along the planks to the first man, engaged my blade, swept it quickly across his throat, then helped him to the deck and held my hand over his mouth while he died.

All the time I kept my eyes on the lookouts and crow’s-nest above.

I disposed of a second sentry the same way, then began scaling the rigging to the crow’s-nest. There a lookout scanned the horizon, his spyglass moving from left to right, past Roberts’s ship and back again.

He focused on Roberts’s vessel, his gaze lingered on it, and I wondered if his suspicions were churning. Perhaps so. Perhaps he was wondering why the men on board didn’t
look
like Portuguese merchantmen. He seemed to decide. He lowered the spyglass and I could see his chest inflate as though he were about to call out, just as I sprang into the lookout position, grabbed his arm and slid my blade into his armpit.

I swept my other arm across his neck to silence any cries as blood gushed from beneath his arm and he breathed his last as I let him fold to the well of the crow’s-nest.

That accomplished, Bart’s ship came alongside, and as I descended the rat-lines the two ships bumped and his men began pouring over the sides.

A hatch in the quarter-deck opened and Portuguese sailors appeared, but they stood no chance. Their throats were cut, their bodies thrown overboard. In a matter of a few bloody moments the galleon was controlled by Bart Roberts’s men. Fat lot of good their gun training had done.

Everything that could be pillaged was pillaged. A deck-hand who dragged the coffer on deck and grinned at his captain, hoping for some words of praise, got none. Roberts ignored him and indicated for the chest to be loaded on his stolen ship.

Then, suddenly, came a shout from the lookouts, “Sail ho!” and in the next instant we were piling back to the stolen ship, some of the slow men even falling to the sea as Roberts’s ship pulled away from the flagship and we set sail, two Portuguese naval warships bearing down upon us.

There was the pop of muskets but they were too far away to do any damage. Thank God we were in a stolen Portuguese ship; they had no desire to fire their carriage guns at us. Not yet. Probably they hadn’t worked it out yet. Probably they were still wondering what the bloody hell was going on.

We came around the bay, sails pregnant with wind, men dashing below decks to man the guns. Ahead of us was anchored the
Jackdaw
, and I prayed that Adewalé had ordered lookouts and thanked God my quartermaster was an Adewalé and not a Calico Jack, and so would have made sure the lookouts were posted. I prayed that those very lookouts would at this very moment be relaying the news that Roberts’s vessel was speeding towards them with the Portuguese Navy in pursuit and that they would at this very moment be manning their positions and weighing anchor.

They were.

Even though we were being pursued, I still had time to admire what to my eyes is one of the most beautiful sights of the sea. The
Jackdaw
, men on its rigging, its sails unfurling gracefully, being secured, then blooming with a noise I could hear even from my vantage point far away.

Still, our speed meant we caught them smartly, just as the
Jackdaw
was gaining speed herself, and after exchanging quick words with Roberts I stood on the poop deck and my mind returned to the sight of Duncan Walpole, he who had begun this whole journey, as I leapt from the poop of Robert’s ship back onto the
Jackdaw
.

“Ah, there’s nothing like the hot winds of hell blowing in your face!” I heard Roberts cry as I crouched and watched as our two vessels peeled apart. I gave orders to man the stern guns below. The Portuguese reluctance to open fire was over, but their hesitancy had cost them dear, for it was the
Jackdaw
who took first blood.

I heard our stern guns boom, then spin back across the deck below. I saw hot metal speed over the face of the ocean and slam into the leading ship, saw splinters fly from jagged holes in the bow and along the hull, men and bits of men joining the debris already littering the sea. The bow gained wings of foam as it dipped and I could imagine the scene below decks, men at the pumps, but the vessel was already shipping too much water and soon . . .

She turned in the water, listing, her sails flattening. A cheer went up from my men but from around her came the second ship, and that was when Bartholomew Roberts decided to test his own guns.

His shot found its mark, just as mine had, and once more we were treated to the sight of the Portuguese vessel ploughing on, even as the bowsprit dipped and the bow sank, her hull looking as though it had been the victim of a giant shark attack.

Soon both ships were seriously floundering, the second one more badly damaged than the first, and boats were being launched, men were jumping over the side and the Portuguese Navy had, for the time being at least, forgotten about us.

We sailed, celebrating for some hours until Roberts commanded both vessels to drop anchor and I stood alert on the quarter-deck wondering,
What now?

I’d primed my pistols, and my blade was at the ready, and via Adewalé I’d told the crew that if there were any signs of a betrayal they were to fight to save themselves, don’t surrender to Roberts, no matter what. I’d seen how he treated those he considered his enemy. I’d seen how he treated his prisoners.

Now, though, he called me across, having his men on the rat-lines swing me a line so that first I, then Adewalé, could cross to his ship. I stood on the deck and faced him, a tension in the air, so thick you could almost taste it, because if Roberts did plan to betray us, then that was the time. My hand flexed at my blade mechanism.

Whatever Roberts was planning—and it was safe to say that he was planning
something
—it wasn’t for just then. At a word from him, two of his crewmates came forward with the chest we had liberated from the Portuguese flagship.

“Here’s my prize,” said Roberts, with his eyes on me. It was a coffer full of blood. That was what he had promised. Hardly the grand prize I was after. But we would see. We would see.

The two hands set down the chest and opened it. As the crew gathered I was reminded of the day I had fought Blaney on the deck of Edward Thatch’s galleon and they gathered round to watch us. They did the same now. They clambered on mast and in the rigging and stood on the gunwales in order to get a better look as their captain reached into the chest and picked out one of the vials and examined it in the light.

A murmur of disappointment ran around those watching. No gold for you, lads. No silver pieces of eight. Sorry. Just vials that probably to the untrained eye might have been wine but that I knew were blood.

Oblivious to his crew’s disappointment and no doubt uncaring of it anyway, Roberts was examining the vials, one by one.

“All the Templars have been busy, I see . . .” He replaced a vial with nimble fingers that danced over the glittering crystals as he picked out another one, held it up to the light and examined it. Around us the men, disconsolate with the turn of events, began descending the rat-lines, jumped down from the gunwales and began to go about their business.

Roberts squinted as he held up yet another crystal.

“Laurens Prins’s blood,” he said to me, then tossed it to me. “Useless now.”

I stared carefully at it as Roberts cycled quickly through the contents of the coffer, calling out names, “Woodes Rogers. Ben Hornigold. Even Torres himself. Small quantities, kept for a special purpose.”

Something to do with The Observatory.
But what?
The time for taunting me with promises was over. I felt anger beginning to rise. Most of his men had gone back to work, the quartermaster and first mate stood nearby, but I had Adewalé. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to show Bartholomew Roberts how serious I was. Maybe it was time to show him that I was sick and tired of being messed around with. Maybe it was time to use my blade to
insist
that he tell me what I wanted.

“You must take me to The Observatory, Roberts,” I said firmly. “I need to know what it is.”

Roberts twinkled. “To what end, hey? Will you sell it from under my nose? Or work with me and use it to bolster our gains?”

“Whatever improves my lot in life,” I said guardedly.

He closed the chest with a snap and placed both hands on the curved lid. “How ridiculous. A merry life and a short life, that’s my motto. It’s all the optimism I can muster.”

He seemed to consider. I held my breath, again, that thought,
What now?
Then he looked at me and the mischievous look in his eyes had departed, in its place a blank stare. “All right, Captain Kenway. You’ve earned a look.”

I smiled.

At last
.

“Can you feel it, Adewalé,” I said to him, as we followed the
Rover
around the coast of Brazil. “We’re moments away from the grandest prize of all.”

“I feel nothing but hot wind in my ears, Captain,” he said enigmatically, face in the wind, sipping at the breeze.

I looked at him. Once again I felt almost overpowered with admiration for him. Here was a man who had probably saved my life on hundreds of occasions and definitely saved my life on at least three. Here was the most loyal, committed and talented quartermaster a captain could ever have; who had escaped slavery yet still had to deal with the jibes of common mutineers like Calico Jack, who thought themselves above him because of his colour. Here was a man who had overcome all the bilge life had thrown at him, and it was a lot of bilge, the kind that only a man sold as a slave will ever know. A man who stood by my side on the
Jackdaw
day after day and demanded no great prizes, no rich-making haul, demanded little but the respect he deserved, enough of the shares to live on, a place to rest his head, and a meal made by a cook without a nose.

How had I repaid this man?

By going on and on and on about The Observatory.

And still going on about it.

“Come on, man. When we take this treasure, we’ll be set for life. All of us. Ten times over.”

He nodded. “As you wish.”

By then the
Jackdaw
was not far from the
Rover
and I looked across the deck to see their captain, just as he looked over to see me.

“Ahoy, Roberts!” I called over. “We’ll cast anchor and meet ashore.”

“You were followed, Captain Kenway. How long for, I wonder?”

I snatched the spyglass from Adewalé and scuttled up the rat-lines, shouldering aside the lookout in the crow’s-nest and putting the spyglass to my eyes.

“What do you think that is, lad?” I snarled at the lookout.

He was young—as young as I was when I had first joined the crew of the
Emperor
. “It’s a ship, sir, but there are plenty of vessels in these waters, and I didn’t think it close enough to raise the alarm.”

I snapped the glass shut and glared at him. “You didn’t think at all, did you? That ship out there isn’t any other ship, son, it’s the
Benjamin
.”

The lad paled.

“Aye, that’s right, the
Benjamin
, captained by one Benjamin Hornigold. If they’ve not caught up with us then it’s because they haven’t wanted to catch up with us yet.”

I began to make my way down the rat-lines, pausing. While I’d looked at the
Benjamin
I’d seen the returning glint of a spyglass from the top of her mainmast.

“Call it then, lad,” I shouted up to the lookout. “Sound the alarm, late as it is.”

“Sail ho!”

The Cuban coast was to our starboard, the
Benjamin
behind us. But now I was at the tiller, and I hauled her over, the rudder complaining as she turned, the men reaching for a handhold as our masts swung, our port side dipped and we began to come around, until the manoeuvre was complete and the men were complaining and moaning as the oars were deployed, the sails reefed and we began a trudge aimed at meeting the
Benjamin
head-on.
You won’t be expecting that, will you, Benjamin?

“Captain, think carefully about what you mean to do here,” said Adewalé.

“What are you griping about, Adewalé? It’s Ben Hornigold come to kill us out there.”

“Aye, and that traitor needs to die. But what then? Can you say with certainty that you deserve The Observatory more than he and his Templars?”

“No, I can’t and I don’t care to try. But if you’ve a better idea, by all means tell me.”

“Forget working with Roberts,” he said with a sudden surge of passion, something I’d rarely seen from him, such a cool head usually. “Tell the Assassins. Bring them here and let them protect The Observatory.”

“Aye, I’ll bring them here. If they’re willing to pay me a good sum for it, I will.”

He made a disgusted noise and walked away.

Ahead of us the
Benjamin
had turned—Hornigold with no stomach for a fight, it seemed—and we saw the men in her masts securing the sails. Oars appeared and were soon spanking the water, our two ships in a rowing race now. For long moments all I could hear was the shout of the coxswain, the creak of the ship, the splash of the sweepers in the water, as I stood at the bow of the
Jackdaw
and Hornigold stood at the stern of the
Benjamin
, and we stared at one another.

As we raced, the sun dipped below the horizon, flickering orange the last of its light as night fell and brought with it a wind from the north-west that dragged fog inland. The
Benjamin
anticipated the wind with more success than we did. The first we knew of it was seeing her sails unfurl, and she put distance between herself and us.

Some fifteen minutes later, it was dark and fog billowed in towards that part of the Cuban coast-line they call the Devils Backbone, crags that look like the spine of a giant behemoth, a moon giving the mist a ghostly glow.

“We’ll have a hard fight if Hornigold draws us any deeper into this fog,” warned Ade.

That was Hornigold’s plan, though, but he’d made a mistake, and a big mistake for such an experienced sailor. But he found himself being hustled by the wind. It rushed in from the open sea, it charged at cross-purposes along the coast, turning the sand-banks of the Devil’s Backbone into a haze of impenetrable layers of fog and sand.

“The winds are tossing them about like a toy,” said Adewalé.

I pulled up the cowl of my robes against the chill wind that had just began to assault us as we came within its range.

“We can use that to get close.”

He looked at me. “If we are not dashed to pieces as well.”

Now the sails were rolled up again, but on the
Benjamin
they weren’t so quick. They were being buffeted by the wind. I saw men trying to reef the sails but finding it tough in the conditions. One fell, his scream carried to us by the gusts.

Now the
Benjamin
was in trouble. It bobbled on an increasingly choppy sea, buffeted by the wind that snatched at its sails, turning it first one way, then another. It veered close towards the banks of the Backbone. Men scurried about the decks. Another was blown overboard. They’d lost control. They were at the mercy of the elements.

I stood on the forecastle deck, one hand braced and the other held out, feeling the wind on my palm. I felt the pressure of the hidden blade on my forearm and knew it would taste the blood of Hornigold before the night was old.

“Can you do this, breddah? Is your heart up for it?”

Benjamin Hornigold, who had taught me so much about the way of the sea. Benjamin Hornigold, the man who had established Nassau, who had mentored my greatest friend Edward Thatch, who in turn had mentored me. Actually, I didn’t know if I could.

Truth be told, I was hoping the sea would swallow him up, and see the job done for me, I told him. “But I’ll do what I must.”

My quartermaster. God bless my quartermaster. He knew the fate of the
Benjamin
before the fates even knew of the fate of the
Benjamin
. As it crashed sidelong into a high bank-side, seemingly wrenched from the sea by a gust of wind and spirited into a cloud of sand and fog, he saw to it that we drew alongside.

We saw the shapes of crew members tumbling from her tops decks, figures indistinct in the murk. I stepped up to the gunwale of the forecastle deck, braced with one hand on the bow strip then used the Sense, just as James Kidd had shown me. Among those falling bodies of men who slipped from the deck of the ship onto the boggy sand-banks and into the water, I was able to make out the form of Benjamin Hornigold. Over my shoulder I said, “I’ll be coming back.”

And then I jumped.