Meantime, Jack and Pierre stormed the gangplank and had their pistols raised point-blank range at four terrified sailors, shaking their heads in disbelief and still unable to take their eyes off the demonic scene ahead. The raiders, with powdered faces and hands, had skillfully drawn charcoal features that made them look like ghouls gamboling in outsized clothing. The youngest French tar screeched like a virgin. The other three were too confused to offer a resistance. Jack savagely gagged and tied up the prisoners while Pierre spoke harshly in their native language demanding the keys to the hold. Within minutes I managed to propel the craft alongside, then Anne snapped into action rowing round the stern toward the dock. Soon as Jim tied her off she washed her arms clean and scrambled aboard to help Jack and Pierre haul the cloth up on deck, as I hurriedly donned dry clothes. Then me and Jim ran the goods down the plank and threw them into the wagon. It was swift and exhilarating. It was daring and mad. Pierre also stole their good wine—he swore the best in the world came from France—and Jack took all of their nautical charts, which was force of habit for a sea dog. The whole operation was concluded within the hour so we dropped Jim back at the Silk Ship to avoid any suspicion falling in our direction. We soon lost Pierre in the thrill of his heavenly cloth but not before he’d opened one of the vintage bottles to toast our success. Jack washed the muck off his face, then came and entertained us ladies. A little later on he asked me if I’d heard the newly arrived news from Virginia. When I shrugged my face he leaned over and warned, “Israel Hands was reprieved at the final hour and, I’ve heard tell, is gunning for you to exact revenge. . . .”
I blanched and swallowed the rest of my wine with a gulp. But wanting to return the favor, I waited for Anne to move off and refill the cups, then whispered, “And you needs be wary of that wench—she’s poison.” Rackham flashed me a knowing smile and winked. I guess some fools just never listen. As we drank and chatted, the rush of excitement died away and I eventually dragged myself off to slumber—leaving Annie and Jack to forge the desperate bond that only the noose would sever.
Now I knew the very next morning that Anne Bonny had fallen for this pretty marauder who later boasted he’d taken her the same way he looted ships, “No time wasted, straight up alongside, every gun brought to play, and the prize boarded.” By the end of the week she’d made Jim move into Mary’s old room at the tavern and promptly took to flashing her new swashbuckler in public. Rackham swore to honor the king’s pardon and then set about impressing his mistress with the shiny blunt she so delightfully helped him dispose of. And I was shocked by the change that came over this stony jade—I think for the first time, ever, she truly was in love. Gone were the spiteful snarls and the bored, angry huffing, the looks of disdain and the snide snippy under-breath comments. Instead we were treated to the long, glazed mooning, incessant bland chatter and constant keen smiles. I ain’t kidding when I tell you this, Annie’s face would physically glisten whenever Jack came anywhere near, her bosom would sheen with excitement, and she laughed so quick and so often I grew worried she’d wear out her throat. Of course, I don’t know how Jack felt about his new lady but they both seemed to crave each other’s approval. She devoured the glamour and excitement. And he seemed to savor the abandon and willing and dare. So I generally left them both to it and went about my own matters. Meanwhile, Jim was doing a roaring trade at the Silk Ship trying to work off his debt and frustration, and wisely steering well clear of his wife and her beau.
Two nights after we’d taken the
Calais
I walked back from the tavern unaccompanied and soon as I stepped through the doorway an ironlike hand shot across my mouth and twisted my neck as if wringing a chicken. I couldn’t see or think or breathe but I managed to tear my mouth free and scream with all my guts. The rough arms pushed me violently across the room and kicked my stomach as I lay vibrating on the floor. A spark struck the tallow of a candle and in an instant I was staring at the weasel face of Israel Hands. He pulled up a chair and pinned me in place by stamping his boot on my hair. Then he showed off his only front tooth and snarled, “You always was trouble, you pox-riddled doxy.” The passion in his venom made me gasp. “Thought you could take all that booty and not pay the piper, eh?” He slid out a knife and the candlelight licked its sleek edges. I realized that he’d got a bandage round his leg, and from the pose he adopted it looked like he’d perhaps lost a kneecap. But before I could spot any other weakness he was dragging me toward him by my locks like a fisherman hauling in nets. I slid involuntarily closer and closer, clamping my hand to my roots to protect the scalp. When my skull hit the chair leg the yanking ceased, but then I felt the knife cut a nick in my throat with the promise it would slice me a new smile. “Where’s my blunt, bitch?”
I was moments away from an open vein and desperate to bide more time. I squealed, “In the box! The box . . .”
The blade grew sticky and I could feel my own juice sliding down my cleavage. Keeping my head speared on the tip of his weapon he wound my hair tight as it would go and tugged us both on our feet. I immediately turned, felt my head catch fire, and kicked him hard as I could in the shattered knee. He grunted in pain, and the moment there was slack I turned and pushed him backward against the chair. The pair of us fell into a wrestle of confusion but when I heard the weapon clatter to the floor I tussled to loose my locks from his grasp. The pirate seemed momentarily stunned but his fingers were groping to recover the knife. Then he sprang like a squirrel, twisting me over the base of the chair, his arm across my shoulders pinning me to the wooden seat. Hands whipped free his cord belt and bound my bleeding neck to the spokes. I now knelt at his mercy. “Where’s this box then, darling?”
“In . . . in back. Under the table.”
I watched from my disoriented viewpoint as he lit a lantern and hobbled through to the apothecary, making a futile attempt to release the rope at my throat. I heard curses and bumps as he bumbled around, and then the eventual rattle of the chest where I kept my wealth. “By the devil . . . locked!” he roared. I heard him stumping back. He needed the key I kept hidden on my person or it would take all night to saw through that padlock. Hands slid the chest onto the seat by my face and he grunted, “Open it.” But I sensed that the instant I did he would kill me anyway. The light of the lantern cast a netherworld glow on the buccaneer’s livid face. He pressed so close I could smell the rancid tooth and hear the hiss of anger rattling deep in the throat. “Open it, harlot!” To drive his point home the intruder pressed my left hand to the top of the box, splayed my palm flat, and sawed through the knuckle of my smallest finger with several brutal tugs of the blade. I screamed and then started shaking. He moved the knife to the next finger . . . knowing I’d never find future employment if I couldn’t hold syringes or cocks. “Open it—or I’ll cut ’em off one by one to your thumbs and then eat’em up before you!” My wavering fingers rooted around in my bodice for the leather thong. As soon as it came into view Hands raised the knife and slit the key free.
By this point I was bloody and dizzy, the pain like a throbbing sting kicking inside of my temple so that I didn’t really see what happened next. All I recall is a charging roar, a flush of light, and Pierre with the largest smoothing-iron flying through murky air. He hit Israel Hands so hard that a dull crack was followed by a bubbly groan and the pirate fell stunned to the floor.
“
Merde alors!
Who is this?” Pierre cried.
“Blackbeard’s master, Israel Hands,” I stuttered. “He . . . He came to kill me.”
Pierre patted the top of my head, and then he picked up the splattered blade and cut my neck free. “Is he dead?” I asked hopefully.
Pierre pushed him gingerly with his foot and noted the gash to his skull.
“Non,”
he announced. “We will have to keep him docile.”
I pushed myself slowly to my feet and staggered to the apothecary. After I’d bandaged my mangled stump and wrapped a neckerchief round my raw throat, I returned with enough laudanum to send Master Hands to his captain. Pierre suggested we make him look drunk, stuff him aboard the next craft bound for Europe, and hope he drowned in his vomit or met some otherwise lethal disaster. And to imply that he’d induced his own sorry state we carefully cleaned up his hair and covered the wound with an old beret. Then we doused his face with brandy, left the empty bottle in his waistcoat, and propped him up between us as we dragged him down to the docks.
A naval ship was preparing to leave on the tide. I shouted to the watch in my best doxy voice, “Ahoy, lads! I’ve brought you this from the Silk Ship—I think he’s one of yours!”
At a time when press gangs would settle for anything no one questioned but that he was one of their own. “Bring him aboard, sweetheart.” Pierre and I manhandled him onto the deck and dropped him against a water barrel. “Has he paid you yet?” some kind soul asked.
I pouted with my sore hand in my pocket and said, “ ’Course not. Why do you think I’m here?” while Pierre mimed the role of disgruntled panderer, pacing and prodding and cursing.
One of the officers felt in Hands’s pockets and said, “Sorry, love. You’re out of luck.”
“Story of my life . . .” I quipped as Pierre’s stiff arm yanked me away.
Now, as it turned out, that ship was bound for England. And we hadn’t actually killed Israel Hands. But the blow to his brain had rendered him stupid and—last I heard—he was begging the streets of London as a beaming fool.
So the remnants of Blackbeard’s crew wouldn’t be messing with me any further—and that was that.
15
DARED THE KNIFE AND TOOK THE BLADE
1719–1721
A
fter our successful pillage of the
Calais
Anne took to piracy like a dog to a bitch’s backside, snuffling for every opportunity, even though we almost got found out. See, the French captain lodged a formal complaint with Governor Rogers and when he mentioned the haul was of lavish cloth—and that the demons had spoken his native tongue—eyes naturally turned to Pierre. So almost a week later the governor escorted the captain and the four eyewitnesses to the dress shop. Pierre was bent over the bolt of black velvet, cutting out something for Annie. I was in the apothecary so I quickly locked away all telltale signs, then stood eavesdropping in the hallway. The captain strode over to the worktable and pointed to a cockerel-shape carved in the knob at the end of the velvet roll. He gave a confident snort before announcing, “Look! The coq of Gaul!”
Rogers bent over to examine the brand mark and asked, “Where did you get this cloth?”
Pierre acted suitably outraged and spluttered, “From the captain himself . . . I have the purchase note. . . .” He rummaged through the pullout draw. “Voilà!”
Rogers glanced at the document and stiffly nodded as Pierre began cussing his countrymen in French, waving at the other bolts stacked on the shelves and inviting them to check. Of course, all the prize cloth was carefully hidden throughout Pierre’s other numerous establishments so no other cockerel rolls were unearthed, but in the midst of all the commotion Anne came down from her room alerted by the noise. The crewmen, however, did not recognize the actress without her gory makeup—but the governor knew well enough who she was and changed his tone when he saw her.
“Mrs. Bonny!” he exclaimed. “Pardon the intrusion but we are looking for merchandise recently stolen from the
Calais
by a cunning band of pirates.”
“Really?” Anne asked innocently. “And why are you looking here?”
“The freebooters were French. They stole valuable materials and vintage wine.”
“And whom, pray, is under suspicion?” she inquired in her best-polished voice.
Everyone looked toward the dressmaker.
“Oh, surely not Pierre!” Annie giggled. She moved over to the men and whispered behind her hand, “Does he look like a buccaneer to you?” She flopped her wrist in a mocking gesture for emphasis.
“Where were you six nights hence?” the captain asked the accused.
“He was with me,” Anne announced, “at the Silk Ship Inn. My husband is landlord there and can verify what I say.”
“At what hour did you leave?” the governor wanted to know.
“Friday? That was the night our assistant got bitten. . . .” She paused as if trying to remember all the details. “She had left to come home around midnight and swears—bless her heart—a ghost ship floated toward her across the bay. Now she’s a wee bit simple and sensitive to such omens, and in the shock of it all swooned in a dead faint and lay unconscious on the ground. She came round to find a huge rat sat gnawing on her finger! Can you imagine?” Annie shuddered at the image. The men looked uncertainly at each other.
“Then what happened?” prompted Rogers.
“Pierre and I were playing checkers when the poor wench staggered back to the inn, eyes wide with terror and gibbering. So of course we immediately abandoned our game, brought her back here, and attended the wound. But it took hours to calm her down.”
“So Monsieur Bouspeut was with you the whole evening?” Annie nodded. “And where is this assistant?” he demanded.