It seems Blackbeard was the son of a prominent scholar who grew up in the thriving port of Bristol where his father spared no pains on his education, hoping he would follow in the family footsteps to Cambridge University. But he was not inclined to academia, so at the ripe age of twenty-one he married the dark-haired daughter of a wealthy merchant and joined their family business. After several years of trying hard he and the missus finally had a son called Eddie. Now, Blackbeard didn’t know why their child had blond hair and blue irises (when both parents were dark-eyed) until the day he caught his wife making the beast-with-two-backs in their bedchamber with her dissolute fair-haired cousin. Edward was so enraged that he crippled the cuckold with his own bare hands, and left his screaming wife for the first berth away at sea. He never returned—and claimed they had long since divorced. Teach’s passage took him to the West India Islands where he eventually became a privateer operating out of Jamaica during the latter part of the French War. Then he met up with Hornigold, switched to piracy, and now finally commanded his own vessel. But what started as a vengeful escape apparently turned into an ever escalating ride for the thrill. I could tell it was the excitement that brought Blackbeard to life—and the lust for fame that would ward him safe from death.
Now, I know you ain’t never going to believe this but throughout that entire evening the dreaded Captain Teach played the role of perfect gentleman. He sat with his arm round my shoulders, lightly conversing until the last sounds of life faded downstairs, then he gave me a solemn kiss on the fingers, pushed a gold coin into my sticky palm, and made his way softly downstairs where Caesar and Will were waiting. The next day his mast was a small glint on the wavering horizon and I didn’t never see him again until several weeks had passed. But I realized I’d finally got over Jim Bonny when all I could think of was that gentle giant who now invaded my thoughts.
What is this transient thing that folks call love? You’ll probably say something like positive regard or affection, but how do you know if it’s physical desire, emotional fulfillment, or the thrill of adventure instead? We’re so sold on dreams of the happy forever that I wonder just how much contentment survives the leaky years. All the men I’d ever known before were driven by sex, which their prey were conditioned to interpret as love (ever thinking themselves something special). We all know that men need to dominate a challenge that surrenders to their prowess—and in return they’ll provide for any offspring, in a deal always weighted to their favor. Of course, some woman may lead a parallel life without loss of self, but most love comes at a terrible cost, paid for in milk and blood.
N
ow, somewhere around that time Violet fell pregnant. At first she kept denying her rounding figure and claimed all the rum was making her fatten, but when she eventually realized she was four months gone she threw furious accusations in my direction, cursing me out that my herbals had failed. After she’d calmed down she tried bargaining, bullying me to help her as it was supposedly all my fault. My once-funny mate sank into a deep despair as she tried to reject femininity, but I saw that if I didn’t do something drastic she’d drown in the bile collecting in her stomach. So I reluctantly agreed to aid in her murderous scheme.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked.
“Make me some trade to remove it!” she hissed.
My medicine chest contained tansy, which I ground into powder and administered as tea four times a day. She took the measured doses for over a week, but to no avail. So next I conferred with Mary, who’d once been a madam in York and, on her advice, managed to acquire some opium. But all the laudanum achieved was the worst headache Violet had ever encountered, and not a single stain of blood. Next we tried marjoram mixed with thyme, parsley, and lavender—and then I even got hold of some savin. Nothing, however, would budge the bulge in her belly. In desperation I turned to Pierre, thinking he might know of some remedy, who explained how women in France often sit over boiling pots of steam. But Violet quit that attempt soon as she scalded her intimate parts and was livid I’d asked the counsel of an ignorant man. She begged me to flush her insides with seawater using the metal syringe. I did—but I told her that only worked in the earliest hours when the damage was first done. She tried sleeping in tightened corsets, binding the cords to strangle the life within, but the pressure made her vomit and turn an ashen gray. Then in the middle of the night I heard her shuffling on top of the stairs and was only just able to prevent her from flinging herself to the tavern floor below. And so she made me promise I’d help in her final attempt—she was going to insert a stick and winkle the creature out from its pearly shell. The next afternoon we snuck to her room to perform the crude operation. I gave her a draught of the opium left to help against the pain and then watched in horror as she skewered her insides with a long pointed piece of limb. She screamed as something gave, and gaped in terror at the redness that gushed like mud in a torrent onto her bed.
“What have you done?” I gasped. I’d never seen so much blood as that coating her hands and pooling under her body.
“Can you see it?” she cried. “Is it out yet?” I scanned among the glistening sod looking for a glimpse of skin or bone. “Ahhh!” she screamed. And she grasped her stomach as the first contraction bit like a rabid skunk. I could see her body undulate beneath the soggy material and put my hands either side of the movement to try to ease things along. Violet was sweating fit to melt and her eyes were rolling white with agony.
“Push, Violet . . .” I cried. “Push it out!”
“Ohhh!” She gritted her teeth and bore down with all her waning strength. Another huge clot spewed forth and within the deep was a perfect tiny baby. It was limp. We had stunted its only faint chance.
I gave a sorrowful gulp and whispered, “It’s out now. Gone!”
Violet breathed a huge sigh and made a strangled sound with her throat. “Is it . . . Is it dead?” she hushed. I nodded and squeezed her flushed hand.
“I’ll get rid,” I promised. “You just relax now.” But another contraction brought a similar rush and I could see my best mate’s vital force ebbing into the quilt. I tried to stem the flow with blankets, but as soon as I’d got the new one in place it was quickly as soiled as the former. I raised her feet to keep the liquid inside but it still found a way to seep between her powder-white thighs. Violet’s nails were turning blue and I didn’t know what to do.
“Mary!” I screamed. “Mary! Are you home?” There was no response outside the door. So I threw another blanket over the juddering patient and ran out into the street.
My first thought was to find Pierre—he was familiar with all the incoming ships and might know of a surgeon who could help. He looked wisely at the panic on my face, saw the splatter of womanhood that messed up my hands, and instantly guessed what was happening. “It’s Violet!” I screamed. “Help us. . . .”
I vaguely saw Annie in the rear of the shop and watched impatiently as he spoke with her. Then he grabbed me by the elbow and steered me down to the largest sloop refitting in the dock. “Ahoy, messieurs! Where is the surgeon?” he cried. But before either of the pirates could reply, Pierre had squeezed my shoulder and warned, “Stay right here.” Then yelled, “Permission to board!” and ran up the gangplank following the weathered fingers that pointed aft belowdecks. A few minutes later he emerged with a tall gray-haired man who was carrying a dirty bag. He didn’t look much like any doctor I’d ever seen but as beggars can’t be choosers we dragged him to the Silk Ship with the promise of an hour with me after he’d patched up my mate.
Violet’s room was rank with the stench of salty musk. She lay moaning in a delirious stupor with most of her bed saturated in sticky blood. The surgeon put a hand to her forehead, tested for life at her neck, then lifted her wrist to find a pulse. He removed the sopping blanket at her thigh and stared at the dribbling discharge. Then he rolled up his sleeves and set to work. “Boil water and bring fresh rags,” he charged. And I ran off to do as bid.
When I reentered the room he was trying to show the stained stick to Pierre but the dressmaker had just uncovered the tiny corpse I’d left folded in the corner and I could see he was struggling to hold back his grief. “Here’s the bowl,” I offered. And I began to remove the messy blankets from the bed.
“Is there a cup?” the doctor requested. I found a mug and a jug of water and watched as he mixed some potion from his kit.
“What is that?” I asked, curious as ever to learn.
The surgeon ignored my inquiry and said, “Help her sip this slowly.”
“But what is it?” I persisted. I moved to obey his command still awaiting an explanation. The doctor was busy making some kind of poultice to stem the wound and again chose not to answer.
He gave me a contemptuous look and then directed his speech toward Pierre saying, “She has lost too much blood I am afraid.”
Pierre nodded and set about piling the dirty linen into a corner. He wrapped the baby back up into a bundle and placed it carefully on top. “Will she live?” the Frenchman asked. But the surgeon shook his head.
“I . . . I tried to help her. . . .” I muttered in my own defense.
“Well you managed to kill the both of them.” He sneered. “Stupid doxy . . .”
Then he directed Pierre to take my place feeding water, wiped his smeared hands on a clean bit of cloth, grabbed me by the arse, and hissed, “So where is your room then, hussy?” I realized that he wanted to claim his payment. And I was so confused and numb I led him to my bed and melted into void as he roughly took his pleasure.
After he was done and gone I tiptoed back into Violet’s room. It was cold and bleak now that her beautiful spirit had departed. And Pierre and I wept side by side for a moment, sharing her crusted hand. He took the dead child with him to dispose of the shame. And I waited in the growing darkness for Mary to return and show me how to keep breathing.
Of all the times in my life I’ve ebbed at low tide this was the worst I can ever ever remember. Not only had I lost my dearest companion but I felt myself complicit in her demise. So much guilt gnawed an ugly hole in the tattered remnants of my soul and I knew now, once and ever, that God didn’t care a wit for me or mine. After the sparse funeral, Mary and Pierre helped me clear out Violet’s room. They divided her money between themselves—Mary claimed she needed to buy a new bed and Pierre demanded enough rent until the room was reoccupied—and I got all her clothing. Then a couple of days later two new girls called Mayee and Pearl arrived from Jamaica, and Mary none-too-tactfully suggested I should leave. I was in a sorry state and no kidding because I just couldn’t stop blubbering, and as this was the worst turnoff for business I’d got no income coming in. I couldn’t dance. I couldn’t tup. And Mary grew so sick of my hangdog face she arranged for me to move into the garret room over the dressmaker’s shop. These days Anne Bonny was often away traveling with Chidley Bayard so kind Pierre made me welcome and allowed me to help in his shop. He encouraged me to start an apothecary in the back room where he could protect me, but I didn’t have no heart to do anything but sit and sew a mindless needle in line with his instruction. My tears dried up by the end of the week, but the pressing sadness was much harder to lose.
Now, when Blackbeard next returned to Providence I found out quite by chance. Pierre came back from the docks one afternoon with a rolled up parchment that he immediately pinned to the tabletop. I looked down at the puzzling outlines and asked, “What is it?”
Pierre carefully scrutinized the drawing and answered, “A flag for Captain Teach.”
“Blackbeard’s in port?” I quizzed.
“Oui. He arrived last evening.”
“Oh.” I was disappointed he hadn’t sought me out yet. Then I realized he’d probably not know that I’d moved. I stared at the parchment and tried to interpret the shapes. My first question was “Why such a flag? I thought they all flew the
jolie rouge
—” the bloody red flag warning death.
The Frenchman looked up in my direction and explained, “There are now so many of these pirates they need to distinguish the one from the other.” Then he gave me an insight into the design. A white skeleton was set against a black background—the familiar symbol of death found often in graveyards—that much I understood. But this old bones had horns like a demon to imply that Blackbeard was Satan himself, commonly known as Old Roger. The skeleton held an hourglass tilted in one hand, showing the victim that his time was running out, and a spear pointed down in the other to a heart that was dripping with blood. I didn’t need no other clarification. This flag meant that if you didn’t surrender you’d meet death at the hands of the devil. “Can you cut out the shapes?” he asked and passed me a bolt of white canvas. I nodded that I could work such a design, and was glad of a genuine distraction.
By next noon we’d finished the flag and were rather proud of our effort. Pierre gave his final approval and sent me to deliver the order in person. I was a little wary trotting round the docks without Violet, so I made sure my pistol was loaded and tucked into the waist of my skirt. I was also hesitant to face Captain Teach as he’d never bothered to seek me out. By now he’d probably succumbed to some new trollop like Mayee or Pearl so I willed myself not to expect any special recognition. Pierre had told me how to identify his particular sloop and I found it without any difficulty. As I gingerly walked up the gangplank Will Howard spotted me and cried, “Ha, how’s it with you, darling!” He was looking past me to see if I’d brought my companion. “Corn-head’s not with you then?” I stepped onto the rocking deck and carefully made my way over to his side, then disjointedly told him the awful news. Will continued mending the rope he was working on and muttered, “Mighty sorrowed to hear that. She . . .”