In the meantime we continued past Jamaica to rendezvous with the
Revenge
on Grand Cayman Island before our convoy set sail for Providence. But then, one misty day before we arrived there, the authorities finally found us—and the instant we ran into their warship
Scarborough
we wily hunters transformed into cornered prey. This grim man-o’-war had thirty guns, a dedicated crew, and obviously felt able to tackle three drunken pirate ships so they sleekly moved into position and announced their intent to take us. Now their captain apparently expected we’d either try to flee or strike colors, but Blackbeard had no intention of running or surrendering so he ordered the guns to be loaded and weapons dispersed. He then maneuvered the
Queen Anne’s Revenge
broadside, between the man-o’-war and his smaller vessels. “Show them our flag, Mr. Howard, if you please.” The order to fire preceded the burst of cannon that flashed from the warship. I hunkered behind the boats on the quarterdeck, certain we’d never see Nassau again, and waited for my medicinal services to be called upon. Teach raised his horn and introduced himself as Satan before adding, “Pray well sinners! For the hour of your death is at hand. . . .” And the battle began.
This particular engagement was unlike any other I’d ever ever witnessed. We’d no intent to board so the aim was to shoot their ship to splinters whilst trying to avoid the same fate. Our volley was answered in kind, and before we knew it we were engaged in a running duel that seemed to go on and on and on. I didn’t get no time to think when the wounded began staggering through the smarting smoke to the stern, and I rushed to pluck splinters and start binding wounds. Every time our craft took a hit I was bounced off my legs and as the deck grew bloody I shouted for someone to throw down sand so we’d not keep losing footing. And just when I thought we were done for, one of our missiles ripped through their bulkhead and tore a hole the size of a coconut. A cheer burst forth, and encouraged by this success, Philip Morton was able to gauge a kill-shot that leveled their mizzenmast on to the deck. The warship lurched and flailed, bounced wildly like a cork on running water, then before we could even reload our guns the craft had retreated into the mist and out of range.
“Will we pursue, Commodore?” the quartermaster panted.
“Nay, Mr. Howard. I reckon they’ll not be plaguing us further.”
Blackbeard knew that the disgrace of having to limp back defeated would be greater than any punishment he or his men could inflict. And I’ll bet you ain’t never heard this tale before because the Royal Navy don’t like to boast of its losses. But I tell you—whatever the official version—that battle put a price on Blackbeard’s head that many would thirst to win.
After that routing we decided it wiser to avoid Providence so we sailed through the Narrows past Cuba and never saw another sail for days. My surly husband began to grow bored. One drunken night he challenged his officers to a dare, shouting, “Come, let us make a hell of our own, and try how long we can bear it!” He ordered several pots to be filled with brimstone and placed at various points belowdecks. Then he and some other foolhardy men crawled into the hold, closed all hatches, set fire to the combustibles, and waited to see who could endure the stench longest. One by one the officers scrambled choking from the depth, gasping for air in a cloud of sulfurous fumes. Blackbeard was the last to leave and, proud that he was the best soul fitted for Hades, roared, “Damn you, you yellow-bellied sapsuckers! I’m a better man than all you milksops put together!” One of the spectators quipped, “Looks like you’ve just come from the gallows!”—prompting the commodore to push back his sweaty locks, growl lowly, and suggest next time they try hanging themselves to see who could wear a noose the longest. . . . I found the whole episode childish but kept such thoughts strapped tight in my head. Outwardly, I congratulated my husband and further plumped his vanity.
One afternoon when Teach was busy mapping charts, Pell took me down belowdecks to a rank space where the buckets and brushes were stowed. He bent me over a pile of discarded sailcloth and quickly set to business, but before he’d finished a coarse rasp behind us announced that Garrat Gibbens had appeared, searching for pitch. “By the heavens . . .” he mused, “if it isn’t the lovely Mrs. Teach rutting like a she-cat.”
Pell came to conclusion and hurriedly fastened his breeches. He wiped his nose on a grimy sleeve and muttered, “Nice bit of rough, Gibby. And all yours—if you choose.” Something unsaid also passed between the two boatswains and a silent tacit agreement slipped into place.
“As you were, darling. . . .” Gibbens commanded. And he took up the space just vacated by Pell. I cringed when I felt his calloused hands grip my hips and did my best to end him swiftly. He took great delight in yanking my long hair back until his mouth was able to suck on my neck, and as soon as we’d finished in one position he was charged up to go again. I began to worry that Blackbeard would miss me. And even more concerned what would happen if he found me.
When eventually I was allowed to leave I hurried to the main cabin. My husband was staring out the window but his countenance changed the moment I entered the room. Now I swear to God, that man could smell the sex on me. His nose quivered like a hunting dog’s snout and his eyes narrowed to arrow slits. “Curse it! Where have you been?” he demanded to know. I blushed and stammered something feminine. He strode over to where I stood shivering and grasped my throat. The instant he saw the huge red marks something set in his eerie eyes—something cold as marble—something sharp as glass. “Whose doing is this, blast you!”
“The b . . . b . . . boatswain . . .” I stuttered between sobs.
“Pell or Gibbens?”
I turned my head to avoid the spittle flying from Teach’s mouth and then nodded shamefully.
“God’s death! Both of them?” he snorted. When I nodded again he pushed me onto the bed and made me confirm the culprits. After I’d finished confessing I waited with barely a breath for the strike on my sinful flesh. But he never raised a hand. Instead, he picked up his cutlass and blustered out of the cabin in search of his impudent mates.
Gibbens was busy on deck when Blackbeard’s tetchy blade surprised the nape of his neck, drawing his instant attention. The boatswain was caught off-guard and fell back onto the planking in mock surrender. He knew why his commodore was there and joked, “By my blood, she’s a lusty wench you’ve got there and no mistaking!” And perhaps believing that Blackbeard meant to share me soon enough he hoped his conspiratorial grin and stellar past service would alleviate any retribution for the taking of early liberties.
But the dark countenance the boatswain stared into gave no slack. “Lower your breeches, you base-souled bastard!” Teach commanded, while the rest of the deckhands crawled close to savor the entertainment. Gibbens instinctively reached for his dagger, then realizing his lack of advantage thought better of confrontation and carefully undid his codpiece, seeming more and more concerned at the commodore’s temper. “And raise the shirt if you please. . . .” The boatswain’s mouth gritted in a bold grimace (as if this were just another madman’s test), exposing himself to the peck of eyes and ridicule. Blackbeard bent close to examine the nakedness, pushed the pirate’s parts around with the hilt of his weapon and, seemingly satisfied with what he’d discovered there, he nodded that Gibbens could now dress. The sailor rolled on his knees to protect his vulnerability and decided it best to laugh off the undeclared joke. “Where’s Pell?” Blackbeard roared. And the voices echoing down in the hull brought the other boatswain up from the galley.
“What’s all the trouble, mateys?” Pell asked. He stopped short the moment he spotted Teach’s drawn sword. “So ’tis your summons, Comm’dore?” he realized. Pell shot a panicked glance at Gibbens hoping for some clue to survival, but his partner merely winked, clucked his tongue, and grinned from one yellow fang across to the other brown stump. Gibbens was free and clear now. He could relax and enjoy the spectacle.
Blackbeard placed the tip of his cutlass on Pell’s barely healed thigh and roared, “Strip to the knees, and don’t make me have to cut you or I’ll cleave your balls asunder!” The frightened man did as bid, his fingers fumbling to undo the buttons fast enough to save his future. But before he could lift his attention to further instruction the commodore had slit the front of the shirt, tearing it from the boatswain’s pale frame. Teach walked slowly round the peeled man, taking full account of whatever it was he was looking for. “Jump to and get from my sight you miserable swine!” he bellowed. And he smacked the bare rump with the flat of his blade for emphasis. Next thing I knew my husband had thumped back down to the cabin. He slammed the door and demanded, “How many others have there been, you loose-legged slattern?”
I rubbed the tearstains on my cheeks and whispered, “None since we’ve been wed, sir . . .”
“Is that the truth of it?” He began to undress in a fury. “Then how, in the name of the devil, explain you this. . . ?” I stared in dismay at the small brown sores covering my husband’s body. I’d seen these before on the
Argyll
and recognized the dreaded Great Pox.
All I could think to do was display my own body, which was clear of any blemishes—and then use the weight of my apothecary experience to push the blame to elsewhere. So I raised my shift to show a clear expanse of skin and murmured, “It . . . looks like . . . like Cupid’s Disease. . . .” I gulped and continued, “Probably from those black women.” I knew the sailors called this the French disease while in France they blamed the Italians. But the Puritans thought that it came from Africa and was spread by careless slavers. “I’ve no rash. . . . See?” I added, and dropped my clothing back in place.
“Can you treat it?” he asked quietly.
I nodded and spoke truthfully. “Sometimes it’s cured and is no further bother . . .” but I added, “and sometimes it goes to the brain.” I didn’t know what else to say. A look of terror gilded the commodore’s black eyes as he faced the depths of his own mortality. He swallowed hard, poured a good tankard of rum, then stood staring out of the windowpane into lone darkness.
Pell grabbed me by the arm the first time he caught me on deck and asked why Blackbeard was so incensed at our liaisons. I didn’t betray his condition, but as I was frightened what my husband might do next I pleaded with the boatswain to keep his faith and protect me. He whispered urgently into my ear, “We’ve already set a course for Maine. . . .” I didn’t have no idea what that meant so Pell briefly informed me that the Isle of Shoals was a popular dumping ground for the commodore’s former wives. Apparently Teach would find some pretext to land on White Island and take the unwanted wife ashore in the skiff. Then he’d suggest she went exploring, and once she was out of sight he’d row back to ship and set sail without her, or invite the crew to form a disorderly queue for their share of her skin. I stared in utter dismay.
“What must I do?” I cried. I didn’t want to be marooned.
“I believe you must plan on escape. . . .” I opened my mouth to ask something more but the boatswain squeezed my elbow and said, “Whatever you decide, share only with yourself. Trust no one, to be sure.” And he staggered off across the deck to organize the sails. Next day Gibbens had been rowed across to the
Adventure
and Pell was back on the
Revenge
. I ain’t sure that the Brethren voted on these changes but no salt dared challenge the commodore’s orders when he slumped in such a rank temper.
Now, a little later, when other members of the superstitious crew also fell foul of the Pox, it was rumored to be a curse—the revenge of the slaughtered African women. So many officers succumbed to varying degrees of headache, malaise, and fever that Captain Bonnet assumed temporary command of the
Queen Anne’s Revenge
while Blackbeard lay in a cantankerous stupor. The commodore suggested they sail for Carolina, and as my supply of mercury ran low the crew voted in favor of the apothecaries of Bath Towne. We planned to dock at Ocracoke (one of the deserted islands off the coast) where we could hide in safety, row over for medical assistance, and share out the plunder we hoped Governor Eden would transform into coin. But as more than thirty sailors had now turned poorly I ran dizzy trying to attend them all. Eventually I had the patients placed on our flagship deck—where any hands not on watch took turns giving water and cleaning up mess—while I went from cock to cock administering the brutal syringe. It was odd, though, that some were stricken with the reddish-pink rash while others developed the small brown sores, and no sooner was one batch of tars feeling better than another fresh outbreak burst forth. So I was really, really glad when we finally sighted the Outer Banks.
Blackbeard’s strength returned by the time we made land. We hauled up in a sheltered creek where the ships could rest hidden from casual view. Will Howard transferred the saleable merchandise onto the
Adventure
, then Lieutenant Richards took the commodore, Caesar, and three other men to trade with Governor Eden, who was whispered to have a secret passage from shore to cellar to aid his nefarious smuggling activities—and who always paid promptly in gold. My husband promised to return with fresh supplies of medicine, flesh, and rum—and no one doubted his intent as he’d left behind his flagship.
The next day Teach reappeared laden down with supplies and wafting a paper he claimed was our pardon. He said Governor Eden had exonerated our entire fleet if we agreed to quietly disperse and go about honest business—so would the rogues agree to collect their pay and subtly melt into the Carolina countryside? Those patients still suffering looked forward to the comforts of land and were first to agree, and the two musicians were also eager to depart, confident that a fiddler and accordionist would always find gainful employment. But most of the old gang seemed reluctant to abandon their only homes and the newcomers appeared disoriented. We sat round a fire waiting for the quartermaster to start divvying up the booty when one of the fledgling salts was pushed forward of his group. He took off his cap and stood cautiously in front of the gathering before spluttering, “Begging your pardon, Comm’dore. . . . What’re we reckoning to do in Bath Towne? I’m from London. . . .”