“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.
Well, this particular night the chattering voices suddenly muted, warning me there was a newcomer in our midst who commanded everyone’s interest. I turned to the door to see a small young woman enter in one of Pierre’s finest outfits, her pretty blond ringlets glimmering as she walked. She had an envious air of superiority, cutting through the crowd as if she owned the place and wedging herself behind Captain Jennings’s chair as if she owned him. He immediately lifted his cheek and persuaded her to kiss him, which she did, her arched eyes all the while staring down Annie. Anne had just finished administering the most recent dollop of rum so she pushed her fire-flecked hair behind one ear and stood to meet the glare. The captain said casually, “Meg—this is Annie. Anne—meet Megan.” Neither woman spoke. They stood suspended in uncertainty not wanting to make the first move. I could see Meg’s face etched in lantern light and found her stunning. Her only flaw was a slight cross of the front teeth, but even this produced an appealing pout that drew the eye to her lips. Her gaze remained riveted on her rival.
Anne recovered first and said, “Mrs. Jennings, I presume?”
The table wobbled under snorts of laughter until the captain clarified with, “She’s my mistress, Annie. Same as you.”
Anne was now pinned in Meg’s magnetic stare and of all the moves I might have anticipated, what she did next absolutely astounded me. She went over to where Meg was standing, whispered something in her ear, brushed two fingers lightly over the amply-stuffed stomacher, and then kissed her rival full on the mouth. Every man in the room was hypnotized and a hush fell over their companions. I couldn’t no way believe what I was seeing! I’d heard of such behavior but never actually witnessed it with my own popping eyes. I waited for Meg to slap her jaw, to recoil in horror or something. But as soon as their faces parted Meg took Annie’s head between both hands and returned the lusty kiss. One of the mates at the table groaned and another was feeling himself through the cloth of his breeches. The captain stood up, put an arm around both women, and led them away to his house down the street. “Are you not staying, Harry, to earn back your loot?” asked the winning companion at the table.
The captain gave him a vulgar leer and said, “With these two darlings to plunder, I think I can forfeit the smaller prize.”
And the men stared enviously after him, even Sharkey.
I ain’t never seen such a guttural response since I snuck in that tent to watch the Dance of Veils. Something primal had just taken place that I didn’t understand. So I talked it over with Sharkey and Pierre, and later with Violet and some of my other customers. And this is what I learned. Men are attracted to women having sex together because they find it incredibly interesting. Now I ain’t never had no desire to see two blokes at it—so even when Dr. Simpson was debauching Bristol in the same room I always turned away and stuffed up my ears. But I guess to a sea dog who’s seen just about everything, the difference—the unknown—is always exciting. I’m told folks like to watch for voyeuristic motives, and I’m willing to concede there’s an aesthetic quality seeing pretty women enjoying each other. Of course, men are also fascinated with female lasciviousness and find willing participants achingly sexy. But what I could never understand were the men who think they’ll be allowed to join in the action—because unless they’re a Captain Jennings they’re cordially not invited.
When James roused himself, around bedtime, we sobered him up enough to get home. He sat on the floor rubbing his eyes and asked, “Have they gone yet?” Violet nodded but didn’t say what had occurred downstairs. “Can’t I stay here the night?” he pleaded. We both shook our heads and were explaining the house rules when Jim’s eyes swelled with salt. “I can’t go back to the shop. . . .” he mumbled, hurriedly explaining that now Annie’s treasures were all sold they’d got no money. Violet ran downstairs just as Pierre was readying to retire. She pleaded on Jim’s behalf and the landlord agreed to let him stay the rest of the month until he found a suitable cruise, but only after Violet promised to make up the deficit herself.
We learned the following day that Anne had moved into the captain’s house to live with him and Meg. So that, apparently, was that.
8
DRINK AND THE DEVIL
SUMMER, 1717
J
ames Bonny was mine for the taking if I still wanted him. And for some unknown reason I found that I did. So I listened to his slurring tongue as he bemoaned the loss of a wife, gazed longingly as his bleary eyes grubbed for searing revenge, made sympathetic noises to bathe his scalded pride, and responded with enough encouragement to snag his tattered need. Now I ain’t no fool—well happen I am—but I honestly felt I could help him get over Annie. Of course, I knew he came to the Silk Ship every night to see if Jennings was there with his women and when the captain did put in a torturous appearance Jim would pickle his anger in enough rum to render it impotent. But most evenings the ménage à trois found other amusements and then James would implode into the sorrowful creature I took to my bosom and bed. Now, after waiting almost a year, you’d think I’d be ecstatic to finally hold my beloved close. But my booty turned out to be an empty chest some outlaw had already looted, for whenever he lay staring in darkness I knew it was Annie’s face he was seeking. Looking back, I can see there wasn’t really no heart left, just a terrible urge to quench his despair and make someone else feel the cost. But we went through the motions time and again and tried to pretend we were lovers.