Chapter 11
“You again.” It was a statement, not a question. Her lower back ached and she did not rise from her cot. This scum didn’t deserve it.
“Good morning, Miss Anne,” Captain Johnson said in a chipper tone.
By the Devil’s ass, was this buffoon capable of exhibiting any other emotion?
The captain welcomed himself to the rough-hewn stool, perching like a guest in a parlor. He carried the same leather bag of writing materials as before.
Clearing his throat, Johnson watched Anne covet his possessions. “I brought something that might cheer you up.”
Anne’s gaze narrowed, not betraying her growing interest. She knew his world and his game. She could outwit him.
He retrieved a guava from his bag, then held it out to her.
Whatever she’d expected, this wasn’t it. The sight of anything beyond a pale crust of bread registered as a growl in her stomach.
“Local to Jamaica,” Johnson said. “The name ‘guava’ comes from a Native word, I’m told. Slightly sweet and good for health.”
“You can’t buy me like a whore, Captain,” Anne said, sitting up and folding her arms. Sweat circles drenched the armpits of her putrid, baggy shirt.
Your move.
To her annoyance, he did not react to the insult. Perhaps he thought she actually was a whore. It wouldn’t be the first time someone assumed as much.
“It’s a gift. No cost,” he said.
“Everything has a cost.”
He sighed with exasperation. Anne lifted her chin and stared at the chipped stone in the corner. She’d spent many hours studying that gray speck of rock.
“You don’t have to say a word in exchange; you’ve made your disinterest in an interview clear. But do consider your unborn child. Your diet here is—”
She snapped her attention on him and cast daggers. “Less than favorable? Unsatisfactory? A disgrace to the oh-so-mighty Christian hearts of mine rock-hurtling accusers?”
This, she noted, did surprise Johnson.
For a moment she said nothing. Then, she snatched the fruit from his damp palm and bit into the green skin. The tangy, pink meat inside did not disappoint. She sucked the pulp and tried to hide her delight.
“I had the privilege of meeting your friend.”
Mary.
Mary, who’d been right about Captain Rackham. Who’d been right about everything.
Anne stopped licking the residue off her hands and watched him. Her heart hammered. They both knew the advantage had shifted in Johnson’s favor. Damn him.
“How is she?” Anne asked with forced steadiness. She folded her arms atop her belly and held back the flood of words and questions.
A shadow of sorrow crossed his face. “Not well, I’m afraid. She claims the fever comes and goes.”
Anne stiffened. An image from the last time she saw Mary, after their trial two months ago: Mary’s dark eyes dazed, her whole body shivering despite the heat, the guards separating them and dragging Anne away.
“Tell me everything,” Anne demanded.
To Johnson’s credit, he did not withhold or negotiate. He gave his full, troubling report.
“She. Cannot. Die.” Anne fumed between gritted teeth. She stood and paced the straw-covered floor. She clenched her fists and resisted the urge to scream.
“She needs constant care, I grant you that.” Johnson shook his head. “These conditions are not meant for women in a delicate state.”
Anne continued to pace. She detected genuine pity from this man, and she no longer knew what game the two of them were playing.
“Mary never deserved to be here,” Anne said, head pressed against the stone.
Her hair—the only physical feature she’d always tended to with a degree of vanity—now looked like the mane of an animal.
A trapped, pathetic, vicious animal. Why was she talking?
And of all people, to this blithering gombeen?
It’s your fault she is here.
It’s your fault Mary joined the crew.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. She needed Johnson. Not just for the paper and ink she hoped to procure—the price of her eventual cooperation with the captain. She needed his help now. Immediately. Until Anne could get them both out.
The baby kicked.
Right. Bloody hell. There were more than two lives to spare. Mary had understood that far longer than Anne.
But now it was too late.
Was it too late?
“What do you want from me?” Anne said, whirling on the captain. She stood above him, towering and attempting confidence. She had to at least pretend to drive a hard bargain.
He studied her carefully. “I already told you.”
She huffed.
“Mary had no quarrels talking about her life,” Johnson said, rubbing his palms on his knees. “She was quite frank.”
This was the friend Anne knew. A woman who took no interest in hiding anymore.
“As a result, what she shared moved me, and I believe it will move others.” Johnson paused. “Do you not think stories matter?”
Anne stifled a laugh. What practical use did stories have? But the question hit her like a blade to the gut. Her childhood in Ireland. Mam tucking the coverlet to her chin, rewarding a successful daily lesson with a bedtime story.
Stories were fiction, Anne retorted. Lies.
Mostly.
“If Mary departs this mortal realm, is it not better that something of her lives on in words?” Johnson continued. “Maybe forever?” His eyes gleamed in a way she didn’t altogether like. “Would it not be better to give something of the truth about her to the world?”
“I’ve read enough to know stories have little to do with truth. Especially ones written by meddling pricks. Men who twist facts to suit their wicked fantasies disguised as righteous, rigid beliefs.”
His brow arched. “You were educated. Brought up by a gentleman. That much is clear. So how does a young lady like you, at the onset of her life—and proved with child—end up here?” he said, gesturing around the room.
Anne sat on the saggy cot again. She placed her hands on the round of her stomach and stared hard at the ground.
This was her chance, her move.
“If I talk to you,” Anne said. “And I mean if,” she emphasized. “There are two things I require.”
His posture shifted. “I’m listening.”
“You must do everything in your power to convince the vermin who run this garrison to attend to Mary and her unborn baby.”
“I called for a doctor.”
Her eyes flashed. “I don’t mean ‘call for a doctor.’ I mean get a doctor—even if that means you have to drag him by the bollocks.
Ask Mary what she needs. Get it for her.
” Anne closed her eyes, wishing she could give Mary immediate freedom.
She had a plan. But until then, what she’d give to offer a word of comfort. Anything to her friend.
Johnson raised a meaty finger to object.
“And I need evidence that you did more than try.”
Lowering his hand, he nodded.
“That is my first request.”
“That was,” Johnson paused, counting, “technically three requests.”
She scowled, though he seemed to have meant it as a joke.
Johnson cleared his throat. “Very well. The second request?”
Be careful, shouted every instinct in her body.
Trust is earned.
The last thing she wanted was to endanger more people than she already had.
“Paper,” she said with boredom.
“Paper?”
“Yes. Paper and ink.”
“What for?”
She shrugged.
Cards close to your chest.
Hook him like a fish first.
“I have a right to know.”
“Then maybe I’ve had enough questions for one day.”
He exhaled but looked more smug than outright concerned.
“We have a deal,” he said, extending his sweaty hand.
Anne feigned disinterest, counted a few breaths, then shook it. She tucked her swollen bare feet under her and stared hard at Johnson while he took out his paper and inkwell, then balanced the desk on his lap.
“What grand tales do you wish to hear?” Anne asked. “Bargains with the Devil? Horrific murders and splendid plunders? Unchecked female depravity?”
Johnson’s wiry brow shot up, almost touching his tricorn.
“That is what you are here for, is it not?” Anne said. “To write something salacious?”
He reddened. “I told you, Miss Anne. I’m here for your story. No matter what that entails.”
She balked. “And if it’s far more boring than you and your readers might hope?”
“I very much doubt that. If helpful, I’ll pose a starting question: How did you get the name Bonny?”
Anne thought again of Mam: her ability to create a story out of thin air. Anne could imitate Mam if she tried. She could provide Johnson with entertainment. It mattered little to her—so long as Johnson upheld his end of their deal.
In the end, she decided to tell something like the truth. If memory can ever be called that.