“Twelve?” Annie exclaimed. “But you said ten. . . .”
“Ah, that was before you confessed to your temper, do you see!”
Bonny was now quite visibly furious. Her face was burning with indignation but she’d determined on having that cloth. “Pay him,” she hissed to Bayard. She whispered something raunchy into his ear and he grew uncomfortable in his breeches. He quickly fished out his purse, proffered the extortionate fee, and signaled for his slave to carry the bolt to his craft. Annie swept off behind the servant huffing and scrunching the sand underfoot.
“The lady must want her frock real bad I’m thinking,” Blackbeard mused to Bayard.
The toff looked up at the pirate and said, “My sister’s invited us to the Governor’s Ball. Anne wants to make an impression.” Then he scurried off behind the rest of his party.
“Poor bastard’s got his hands full with that queen.” Teach laughed. “She’ll create a storm there, I have no doubt!” Then he bit the coin to test the gold and licked his lips on the after-tang.
“Thanks,” I said humbly.
“No matter,” he said, laughing. “By all accounts, I fancy, you now belong to me.” And he bent to kiss the sweaty beads that glittered on my forehead.
Of course, it was a while before we heard all about Annie’s antics at the Governor’s Mansion, but the story was later retold like this. Chidley Bayard’s sister Kate was married to Bart Lawes, brother to Sir Nicholas Lawes, the governor of Jamaica. Sir Nicholas was throwing the grand ball that Annie wanted the cloth of gold frock for, but when she got to the party the other ladies pointedly snubbed Bayard’s latest mistress. Now Annie could charm good as anyone, so she turned on her smile and tried to join in one of the animated conversations. Unfortunately, Kate Lawes was part of this particular clique. She gave Anne a withering look, then said spitefully, “Excuse me, I was talking to the
ladies
,” as she turned back to the group with a superior lilt of one eyebrow.
Annie didn’t move none, nor did she register any sense of insult. Instead she smiled even wider and said, “Then perhaps you would be so kind as to introduce me.”
One of the other guests tittered at the wench’s sass, then let out an embarrassed gasp when Kate Lawes responded, “I really do not think so, my dear. You are Chidley’s new trollop—and hardly worth knowing. So pray, be a good strumpet and keep your distance.”
She obviously expected the humiliated woman to wilt away—but she hadn’t reckoned on Anne Bonny! Annie let her savor her moment of triumph, then as Kate renewed her conversation with her cronies she tapped her lightly on the shoulder.
A note of irritation froze on Kate’s tongue as she spun round to hiss further insult but the moment she opened her lips Annie pulled back her arm and punched the mortified woman full in the mouth. The lady bent over and spat out two teeth in a foaming glob of blood. Then she screamed at the top of her high-pitched throat and the room erupted into chaos. “That’ll keep you well away from me, you stuck-up sow!” Annie roared. And then a fence of jackets tore her from the ballroom.
Bayard flew after her cussing and moaning. He grabbed Annie by the arms and yanked her roughly to face his wrath. “What the hell . . .” he spluttered. “She is my sister!”
“Aye? Well she should learn better manners,” Annie replied.
“But you knocked out her teeth. Her front teeth!” Bayard cried in disbelief. “What were you thinking?”
Annie wrestled herself free of his grasp. She pulled herself tall and said huffily, “She called me your harlot and told everyone to ignore me.”
“But you
are
my mistress, Anne. What did you expect?”
“Expect?” Annie shouted. “I will tell you what I expect . . . the respect befitting my rank—inclusion in conversation—to be treated as an equal.”
“Really?” Bayard mused. “You believe yourself to be
our
equal?” His smug face shook off an amazed sneer.
Annie ground her teeth in anger before spitting out, “If I am not considered good enough why did you bring me here?”
“Is that not obvious?” her lover said. He turned to go back and attend to his sister, leaving Annie uncertain of what to do next. She decided to follow him and see if she could mitigate the damage but before she’d taken two steps he whipped round and warded her off with his hands. “Not you!” he roared. “I cannot be seen with you in public again. You are a disgrace.” And he charged off, taking his patronage with him. Annie slipped up to his room and packed her things, making sure she took all of the valuables she could find. Then she marched down to the harbor, ordered Bayard’s captain to launch the boat for Nassau, and by the end of the week was back in Pierre’s dress shop.
When we heard the tale, me and Blackbeard had a right good chuckle. “See, she did whip up a storm!” he laughed.
“Aye,” I admitted, “you pegged her good and proper!”
O
ur convoy rested in Jamaica for about a week, until the tars had squandered all their plunder and thereby outspent their welcome. During that time Major Bonnet tried to exercise his leg much as the pain would permit but spent most of the day dozing on the sand or playing cards in the cool of the leaves. The angry wound was healing too slowly, and one day as I changed the dressing I felt myself being grazed by critical eyes. The watcher was a strong-limbed islander by the name of Zoola (sired by a swashbuckler to some old queen), who spoke with such a lyrical voice she sounded as if she were singing. She came to my shoulder, took the old soiled bandage from my hand and lifted it to her nose. Then she shook her head and lulled, “Man need pignut for that infection.”
Ever ready to learn new recipes I replied, “Show me,” and rose to follow as she sauntered into the forest. I looked back at Captain Bonnet and promised, “I’ll be back in a moment.”
Just inside the edge of the trees Zoola pointed to a shrub that looked to me like mint. She plucked a handful of the serrated leaves and took them to a flat stone by the waterfall. She picked up a rock and ground the herb with a little water until the mixture resembled a gooey paste that she scooped up in both hands and carefully carried over to my patient. Then she lightly laid the mush over the entire sore and signaled for me to wrap the poultice in place. “This powerful magic against the poison,” Zoola said. And she was right. The very next day when I took off the linen the wound was pink and calm, but when I made to repeat the same treatment Zoola introduced me to soursop instead, because now that the pus was drawn out we could apply this new infusion that worked better for ulcers and sores.
Zoola and I became mates. She helped me drain the yellow juice from aloe leaves into medicinal jars (which worked great for the worms that were plaguing the newcomers from the
Fancy
), and she showed me the wonderful coconut (whose oil could sooth burns and whose unripe juice helped heal the septic cock acquired in brothels). In return I gave her brimstone and vinegar to treat against lice, and showed her the tricks I’d learned to ward off babies. But what she really wanted was the white silk ribbon I used to tie back my hair. So before we left I clubbed her locks and wove it into the braid.
When the three sloops were fully loaded, the men voted to cruise the Atlantic seaboard where there was less chance of running into hurricanes. So we trolled the waters off Delaware down to Carolina, and although we took several small vessels with little resistance, the pickings were slimly disappointing. Blackbeard sensed his crew was growing tetchy—he had to find something worthy and grand. But before we could reach warmer water the skies dimmed sooty and threatened some impending storm. The men voted to ride out the wrath in a sheltered harbor so Blackbeard steered us to Topsail Inlet where a pretty white inn guarded the waters. We went ashore in the skiff, and were able to sail right up to the front deck and tie up on the porch pillar. The men who wanted to stay aboard ship did so but a large number chose to crowd into what they called the ordinary, bringing their hammocks to string up in the attic. Blackbeard had obviously been here before because he was instantly greeted by the landlord—a stooped-backed man called Robert Turner—who offered the sea villain his usual second-floor room. But when the thin face spotted me among the company it blanched wan enough to have seen a ghost. My husband introduced me as his wife with a mischievous wink, while I held out my hand to be properly recognized. I realized we must be somewhere in Carolina and, concerned how close we might be to Charles Towne, was relieved to discover we were in Beaufort, a good many leagues from where I was still considered a fugitive.
The White House stood on a hammock of land staring out to sea. Our room was at the front so I’d a fabulous view of the whipping wave caps that built like marching walls of water and spewed their vengeance onto the sandbars guarding the rim of the inlet. Now, I ain’t never seen a house quite so nicely laid out, but something in the air crawled like a spider on the back of my neck and shivered me into a vague discomfort. Turner ushered Slouchy into his kitchen and I served out cheese, fruit, bread, and ale while we waited for the turkeys to finish roasting. The wind now assaulted the walls of the house, rattling the shutters and creaking the shingles. The moaning grew to a whiny wail, every now and then pierced by a harrowing shriek.
“Sounds like Francine’s bitching again!” Gibbens chuckled from the fireplace.
“Enough!” Blackbeard warned. And the conversation instantly changed.
“Who’s Francine?” I asked my husband. He looked down at the apple he was paring with his knife and mumbled, “None of your concern.” Something in his tone warned to hush so I bit back my curiosity.
The men set up a game of cards and I went into the kitchen to see how the meat was progressing. I wandered to the fire and, absently turning the spit, asked Slouchy, “Do you know who Francine is?”
He glanced over his shoulder to ensure we were alone and whispered, “Best not to ask any questions.” So it was only much later I discovered that she’d been Blackbeard’s twelfth wife and had met a brutal end in this very house. See, when Teach had been a privateer he’d been captured by the enemy and held prisoner on a man-o’-war out of Calais for several months. He’d escaped in a bloodthirsty uprising, but the incident sparked a lifelong hatred of all things French, so whenever he found opportunity he’d specifically target Froggie vessels. Now, one time he captured a brig headed for Charles Towne with the captain’s eighteen-year-old daughter on board. After dispatching with the rest of the crew he forced the young woman—Francine—to marry him. Apparently the poor girl was in so much shock she went along with the ceremony and mutely followed him up the steps of the White House for their wedding night. But once on the bed she refused to submit and kept her knees locked tightly together. I’m told Blackbeard was furious at the rejection and tried everything he could to gain her compliance. In the morning she was still a virgin and all she did was sob and moan at her plight. When next he tried to seduce her she bawled at the top of her lungs, which made her would-be lover so furious he finally tied her to the bed and had his brutish way, relishing the wavering pitch and depth of her screams. But after he’d taken his fill she wouldn’t stop screaming. Blackbeard cut her bonds and dragged her by the hair all the way downstairs and into the back yard. He then, I was told, threw a noose over the big oak limb and hung the wretched woman until her voice fell limp as her neck. She’s supposedly buried under that tree, and every night the moon fails to appear, her spirit roams in anguish. Now, I ain’t sure that I believe in no ghosts—but I have to say there was a chilling noise that pierced the nighttime howling—and a clammy feeling hovering over the bed that I didn’t much appreciate. So I was glad next day when the storm had blown itself quiet and we could once again set sail for the glowing Carribee Islands.
A few days into November found us off the coast of Martinique. Someone spotted a likely prize and the pirates slid into well-oiled action. Blackbeard stood by the quarterdeck rail and raised his glass. “A Guineaman, methinks, by the looks of it. . . . She’s got mighty fine lines. What do you say, Mr. Howard? By thunder, I want her!”
The quartermaster looked through the tube and answered, “Spanish or French, I’d be thinking. Could be a slaver in from Africa. . . .”
Blackbeard shouted across to Hands and Richards, and as all were in agreement the ragtag navy set off after its prey. “Take a better look, shall we, gentlemen?” Night was fast approaching and the three sloops kept enough distance so as not to arouse suspicion. Teach decided to fly French colors to lull their prey into false security. “Let her think she’s among friends,” he mused. “See how close we can get.”
Our convoy trailed the huge ship for a day and two full nights before one of the sharp-eyed tars was able to read her name,
La Concorde
. She was definitely French. And very fair game. So the three captains pulled up close together and determined their cunning ruse. “Break out the weapons!” Blackbeard cried. And the outlaws helped themselves to pistols and swords. “Prepare cannon!” And the order was relayed across all three decks. Teach turned to me and said, “Dress for battle, my little apothecary. And make haste for incoming wounded.” I scurried to do my part even though my teeth were chattering. Our target was three times the size of us and I could see the glint of cannon in their gun ports. All the other vessels had submitted with barely a whimper—but even I knew—a ship this formidable would likely resist to the death.