Blackbeard returned from belowdecks looking like some dark apparition from Hades. He was wearing a strap stuffed with six loaded pistols, carried a sword in either hand, and had several deadly knives tucked about his person. His long black beard was braided with multicolored ribbons and pushed way behind his ears, and his hat had slow-burning cannon-fuses dipped in saltpeter that smoldered a halo of belching smoke. His face was blackened darker than Caesar’s—and a more ferocious monster would be hard for any to envisage. “Run up our flag!” the commodore commanded. “Let them know that we’re here, Mr. Dilly.” The musician instantly took up his place at the mast and began beating a warlike tattoo on the goat-skin drum. We made our way toward the prize as it came down under steering-sail and carefully pulled up to her broadside so as not to expose ourselves to her guns.
“Cannon three—fire!” Teach commanded.
Morton yelled, “Fire in the hole!” and a boom rang out across the bow of the enemy.
Blackbeard took up his horn and shouted across to the French ship, “As you were,
mes chers
. And welcome to hell!”
When the French captain gave the order to retaliate, Teach clearly heard the instruction and so was able to avoid their shot by sheering off sufficiently to prevent any impact. Meanwhile, the other two sloops had crept up from the rear and were now in a good position to board fore and aft. For a moment the French officers seemed surprised that a sloop the size of ours would try to take them, so some bold sniper fired his musket, and the ball felled one of the rogues in our rigging. The unlucky tar dropped like an anchor to the deck and two mates dragged him over to where I sat crouching behind the ship’s boats. I tied a strap around the top of his arm to arrest the bleeding, and then wiggled him under the lip of the longboat to keep him safe. A blast of grapeshot rang out and slashed our foresail, but fortunately only grazed the mast so the shower of splinters was slight. More whistling missiles seared through the air as our cannons responded to the clatter, and the awful shrieks of the wounded howled round the smoke-drenched deck.
Blackbeard’s voice roared, “Get me to the fore, Mr. Howard. Bring us alongside the
Fancy
, if you will.” The men seemed able to find their path through the coughing fury and our sloop swept quietly into position. “You take the command, Mr. Howard. I have some pressing business with these bastard Froggies. . . .” And through the belching fumes I saw Blackbeard and several of his men climbing ladders up the bow of the other vessel.
Now calculating on the superstitious nature of the enemy, the commodore had ordered a half dozen men to also blacken their faces. These ghastly apparitions appeared at the head of the ship like demons gliding through hellfire. The calculated effect worked beautifully—for the terrified Frenchmen were transfixed by the sudden appearance of diabolical creatures emerging through the white smoke of their bow guns. Before they came to their senses Blackbeard and his minions had swarmed the quarterdeck and the French captain’s throat lay on the tip of the devil’s sword.
“Quarter! Quarter!” the semiparalyzed captive cried.
“Mon Dieu! Pitié!”
Israel Hands blew his whistle and the pirates spewed forth from every direction. Victory was ours.
Now, several of our crew got hurt in the fray. I’d a couple of shot wounds to deal with, multiple slashes that needed sewing, and one of the gunners from the
Revenge
lost his right hand. As patients were brought to my area I tried prioritizing according to injury, intent on aiding as many as possible. But more and more blood was oozing underfoot making the deck slippery as grease. Then, just as I bent over the stoic form of Ignatius Pell (who’d got a grizzly ragged thigh wound), I looked up just in time to see an escaped French soldier lifting his dagger to stab me. Without a thought I instinctively tore the knife from Pell’s boot, and as the enemy dived for a forward thrust I brought my blade up level with his eye and pushed with all my heft. The soldier stared with terror at the hilt protruding from his face, before the knife slit through his senses and rendered them void. I think I must have struck his brain for something squished and gave way like butter, then the wetness seeped along the handle coating my wrist in slime. I knew he was mortally wounded. But I couldn’t let go. I knew he was no longer a threat. But I couldn’t help reveling in this strange oozing power. The amused boatswain rose on his injured leg and gently pried my hand from the butt. “I . . . I killed him!” I gasped. And the wave of sensation thrilled me like bliss and I shuddered in absolute triumph. I stood there—anointed in enemy gore—and realized I’d truly become a pirate.
For several moments I set still as rock, riveted by the dead body at my feet. Then Major Bonnet hobbled up from belowdecks, saw I was completely overwhelmed, and set about organizing the chaos. Slouchy was already boiling tar and the carpenter was sharpening the necessary knives and axes. The buccaneer who’d lost his hand was taken belowdecks to the galley, and I flinched at the godless scream when his stump was cauterized. Up above, I clumsily plugged the bleeding gashes—another thigh, an arm, and a difficult-to-sew hip—advising all patients to drink plenty of rum for the pain. One man was shot in the shoulder. The bullet had passed right through but he’d lost all use of that arm. I made him comfortable, trying not to think what we’d have to do if the feeling didn’t return. Another salt had been griped in the gut. This poor soul wouldn’t see morning so I gave him a huge swig of laudanum to ease him along. And when I finally pushed off the rim of the longboat, the fallen sailor was chattering in a sweaty stupor. I think the tumble must have broken every bone and all he could move were his lips and eyes. He looked wildly at the sudden influx of light and grimaced when he saw my concern.
“Can you move?” I asked.
He tried—brought forth a dreadful moan in a vomit of blood—and, realizing he was doomed, the battered soul begged me to finish him off. “My pistol . . .” he stammered. “I beg you. . . .” I tentatively removed the butt and cocked the pin. I lifted a wavering arm to his temple. “Do it!” he pleaded. “Do . . .”
But a flood of panic froze my hand. I couldn’t find the strength to pull the trigger. Then a loud blast came from behind my shoulder and I turned to see Captain Bonnet still holding a smutty gun. He looked at me. Nodded. Then turned smartly away.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the bulwarks the boarders were busily plundering their prize. Now, as it happened,
La Concorde
was a slaver in from Africa who’d unloaded some of her cargo in Grenada, and some in Martinique. But the vessel had been so ravaged by influenza, scurvy, and dysentery that the depleted crew was forced into quick surrender, and as only eighty-odd slaves were now left on board Captain Dosset decided to lower the flag the moment their deck was breeched. First, looters removed the gold dust and coinage straight to Will Howard’s safekeeping, but everything else was left in place because Blackbeard had decided to keep this beauty as his flagship. Dosset and his officers wisely gave up their treasures in exchange for their freedom, so the pirates agreed to let them have the
Fancy
with enough beans to feed them to Martinique, and so all the French sailors squeezed on board. The slaver was rechristened
Queen Anne’s Revenge
and lashed tightly to our remaining two sloops so the pirates could readily swing themselves across all three decks. And then the pent-up release of a ripe, rich prize sent the swashbucklers into a diabolical frenzy. The men drained every bottle of fine French brandy and the poor musicians were ordered to play tune upon tune with barely a break to savor a swig themselves. The major and I managed to make each patient comfortable, and when I finally washed up and changed out of my stained, caked clothes I scrambled over the gunwales and onto the throbbing prize.
Now I’d seen plenty debauchery in my former profession but, let me tell you, I ain’t ever witnessed anything like the bacchanal that christened the
Queen Anne’s Revenge
. For the rowdy revelers had organized themselves a warped mock trial to test the pitiful cargo crammed below. See, some tar had the not-so-kind notion that as they could only sell healthy slaves they should determine whom they wanted to keep on an individual basis. So the captives were hauled up on deck to be judged. Those who were obviously sick or frail were immediately thrown overboard and savagely devoured before our eyes by the begging mass of sharks who’d tailed the vessel from Africa. The strong, able-bodied men were split between the
Adventure
and the
Revenge
, where they’d be given the option of working for the sea villains or being sold on the block at a future destination. For the time being, however, they were locked in fresher holds so the areas could be sanitized. But the girls and young women—some so young they were barely walking—were casually given over to the ruffians to do with as each pleased.
There must have been twenty or thirty females saved from extermination only to find themselves brutalized time and again by all who took a fancy. And the vilest things were being done to these creatures—so foul, you could barely imagine. One pretty girl eventually tussled herself from the snoring, spent carcass of her oppressor and was so ashamed at her treatment she dashed to the side and dropped willingly into the foamy jaws of oblivion. Another proud female slipped the knife from her partner’s sash and plunged it into her own chest. She didn’t die instantly, though, as she’d hoped. And her disgruntled debaucher kicked her to the edge of the ship and huffed ripe curses as he tipped her over. The darkening deck was a mass of writhing naked flesh but there was no love or joy in this copulation—it was vicious, forceful, baser than base. And my heart went out to the youngsters for I knew such a torn reality would tip their worlds lopsided. I vividly recalled how it felt to be so used. I was angry . . . powerless . . . ashamed . . . emotionally spent. And then I saw my husband engaged with some terrified child. The girl was clawing frantically at Teach’s buttocks and ferociously trying to wriggle herself free. But the harder she struggled the tighter his thrust until the flailing body fell silent. I ran over to see if she was still conscious as Blackbeard fumbled to button himself up. I muttered, “Did you kill her?”
The big man pushed her with his boot and her mouth emitted a tiny pop.
“By the powers, not I!” he cried. Then he yelled, “Gibbens! Come finish this off. I have pleasure in saying she’s tender meat, and I’ll warrant, much to your liking.”
The air was electrified with lust and I’d sensed enough to make myself scarce. No female was safe this night. So I quietly spirited away and hid under a blanket alongside the wounded bodies in the sick bay. And I’m not sure to this day which sounded worse—the groans of the injured and smarting—or the yowls of the lecherous men.
In hindsight I’m able to think more evenly on Blackbeard—having now met my fill of all manner of marauders—and would (in his defense) argue that he was stronger and fairer than many a mangy sea dog because at least he knew the limits of violence. See, if you live in a brutal society where cruelty fuels sadism you’ve to be equally ruthless to protect yourself and your position. Yet it wasn’t prize or power that drove Teach—he wanted to be remembered as the greatest buccaneer ever, which was his way of measuring success. Now, I ain’t saying he didn’t act rash in his youth like most whelps, but later he mastered self-control and wasn’t any more violent than the other commanders. And when you compare his nautical treatment of prisoners to the punishments meted on land (hanging and drawing and quartering and pressing) I’d say he was far more gracious and civilized. For at least you knew where you stood with the commodore—if you surrendered quickly he let you go, and if you lied or resisted you suffered his wrath. And his conduct with the Africans was really no different from anyone else who perceived the race as subservient, or assigned a different value to the lives of common slaves.
What made him such a terror then, you ask me, mister? I’d say it was circumstance. Blackbeard was living among sordid, raw creatures, with little enough prospects or education, who’d been dragged up to replicate animal behavior. These men were alienated from church and state, from family and society, so became desensitized and immune to bloodshed. You know, under the right circumstances, anyone can hurt or abuse or kill their fellows—as I myself discovered—and most of us don’t ever question what we take to be society’s rules. But these pirates wanted revenge on the world that had rejected them, and they refused to accept their unfair lot, determined that rather than giving in peacefully they’d make their mark in history and blast out with a bang.
N
ow, for many of our captives the freer life of pumping bilgewater and swabbing decks seemed preferable to the unknown drudgery on the other side of the auction block, so the majority quietly agreed to sign our articles and Blackbeard’s navy swelled close to three hundred men. One by one the women got used up, and there wasn’t nothing I could do to help a single soul because none of them spoke any English. Some died from their treatment. Some went crazy. But they all eventually ended up discarded like yesterday’s food. We immediately headed for Bath Towne, where the commodore intended to sell the remaining slaves at public market. He’d apparently come to some business arrangement with Governor Eden to ensure that Carolina remained the lucrative safe-haven where such booty would find a rich welcome. I stayed quietly out of sight in the makeshift infirmary on board the
Revenge
and tried not to think what my husband was doing each night on his lascivious flagship.