Chapter 30
“Just one night” of sleeping behind the Jubilee’s bar turned into two, then three.
A week passed, followed by another and another, and still Anne washed the dishes, scoured the floors, and mopped up vomit when customers got a little too deep in their cups.
The manager relented to the arrangement.
Anne’s labor paid for the lodging and table scraps, but nothing more.
She stayed busy and out of sight, only venturing outside to fetch well water or to make a purchase for the cook.
Anne studied the people around her. The head cook, Mr. Huxley, did not use full sentences until noon.
The rat-faced owner came and went without introduction or notice of her, and no one bothered to mention his name beyond “sir.” Anne had met two barkeeps and five barmaids.
She liked Read best. He had a strength that reminded Anne of Ellen, but without the sharp edges.
On more than one occasion, she’d seen Read break up a fight without so much as a blow.
He had instincts like a cat and not a trace of fear.
The customers in turn seemed to respect him with a kind of reverence.
Read had little to say beyond the work of the day and, as promised, had asked Anne nothing about her situation.
Out of loneliness, Anne had offered up bits and pieces about Ireland, a handful of stories about Mam, vague references as to why she could not return home, and select details about James Bonny and her current crisis.
“Sounds like he isn’t worth a groat,” Read said one day as they polished the silver.
“He’s a gowl. Do you think he’ll return as he threatened?”
Read paused before responding. In the two weeks of working together, Anne had gotten used to his silences. “Stubborn like that with a mind for greed? I fear so.”
Anne’s gaze flicked to the thin silver band on Read’s ring finger. She dared to probe. “What’s your wife like?”
Read froze.
“Forgive me, I shouldn’t have asked,” Anne said.
Read returned to polishing a pitcher. He was all angles with straight dark hair hanging to his shoulders. Read couldn’t be more than ten years older than Anne. His quiet confidence seemed tarnished by sorrow.
“Gone,” Read finally said, moving onto a candlestick with renewed vigor.
Anne nodded, understanding but not understanding.
She wouldn’t ask where Read’s wife had run off to.
Perhaps it was after another man. If she’d gone after a sailor or a pirate, always in and out of port, it would be pointless to guess anyway.
For all of Da’s flaws, Anne never appreciated how rare it was—his sticking by Mam through it all.
“Anne!” barked the cook, Huxley, from the other end of the room.
“Just got word. Captain Rackham himself is dining here tonight—with a large crowd we’d be wise to impress.
We’re out of pork flank.” The bulbous man placed some coins on the table.
“Fetch us some, aye? And don’t settle for a tough batch.
Old Wentworth at the Hog’s Wife can do better for an old friend. ”
A salty spring breeze teased her snarled hair, which she’d tied back with Dutton’s red kerchief. The smell from the ocean made her miss life aboard a ship and the company of her boisterous companions. All except James, of course. She shivered despite the pleasant heat.
He can’t be back already, she reasoned—assuming he’d return, let alone find her hiding spot. There was no possibility, on God’s green earth, that she would run into James today. Or the next.
She pressed forward—past Dieter’s Den and the Pewter Port, eyes fixed on her boots traveling the sand-covered path flanked by palm trees and sea grape shrubs—focusing on the task and familiar route to the butcher shop.
Why did I pry into Read’s marriage? What is it to me?
Is Read one to take offense?
It was perfectly reasonable, Anne argued, to not know where Read lived, or how he lived, or why he ended up in this haunt for rogues. Hadn’t his kindness been enough? Anne couldn’t also demand friendship.
She hadn’t had time to properly apologize before Huxley called her away. “Damn Captain Rackham and his miserable hungry cronies,” she muttered.
That’s when she collided into another person, hard enough to knock her off her feet. She landed flat on her ass.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Anne bellowed, brushing sand off her skirts. “Mind where you’re walking!”
“My apologies, miss. Are you hurt?”
The voice sounded genuinely concerned. “No.” Anne relaxed her wince and tented her eyes at the sun’s glare, where stood a ridiculously tall man. He offered a hand, which she ignored, then pushed herself up onto her own feet.
“I’m glad to hear it. That allows me the risk of pointing out that it was you, in fact, who ran into me. Headlong, I should add.”
Anne patted her pockets in a huff. Read had warned her of various pickpocket techniques, and she wouldn’t be swindled by this man.
And God Almighty. What a man he was. Dashing. Sun-bleached brown hair. Loose-fitted, flamboyant red trousers. A dazzling half smile.
With … was that a fistful of wildflowers in his hand?
“I haven’t seen you around these parts before,” he said.
“As it so happens, I’m a new arrival.”
He flicked a glance over her body, then continued on with his flower picking. “You nearly trampled this lovely lupin. Lucky I saved it in time. Isn’t it a pretty blue?”
Anne scowled. “Do you make it a habit of plucking flowers right in the path of people going about their business?”
The corner of his mouth tugged up. He snapped up a stem of purple blossoms just off the path.
“And what business are you about, miss … What do they call you?”
“Anne.” It surprised her to hear her own name, to hear herself offering it so freely.
“Is there a surname? A husband’s name, perhaps?”
Anne blinked. An image of Ellen and Mr. Tyler on the docks back in Charles Town flashed through her mind. Was this flirting? “That doesn’t concern you.”
“Your business, or your surname?”
“Both.”
“As you wish,” the man said, stopping to pluck a sprig of red geraniums to add to his colorful collection.
“Are you a gardener?”
“Curious, are we?” he stood and took a step closer.
Anne cleared her throat. She was suddenly conscious of how long it had been since she’d taken a proper bath. “I told you my name. It’s only courteous to offer yours.”
He hesitated for the briefest of moments, as if gauging her seriousness. “Everyone here calls me ‘Calico Jack.’ But to you?” He paused. “You can call me by my true name, John.” He held the purple blossoms to her nose, their natural formation a near perfect circle. “Care to smell?”
Anne raised a brow. He laughed. She stifled a laugh herself, then inhaled. Sweet, delicious, light. Her eyes shot open. “Vanilla?”
“A similar scent, I’ll grant you that,” John said, his youthful boyishness on full display.
“But this is milkweed, in its flowering season—an essential plant to this region.” He lowered the stem to his side and surveyed her face.
“I see you are far from home indeed. I was thirty before I had my first brush with such finery as vanilla.”
Anne patted her pockets again for good measure. The coins were still there.
“Care for an escort into town while you conduct your very secret business? I’ve gathered what I needed here.”
It was only then, at last, that Anne came to her senses. She’d take her chances traveling to the Hog’s Wife quickly, and alone. “I can fend for myself.” And in that moment, she felt its truth, relishing the way it radiated through her core.
Did his face fall for a fleeting instant? She wanted to imagine so. “Suit yourself, Miss Anne,” he said. He reached into his bouquet and pulled out a single yellow alder. “A buttercup, in case we never meet again.”
She took it, twirling the delicate stem in her fingers. And before words returned to her, he was gone.
That night, the full Jubilee staff showed up in anticipation of the crowd.
The owner himself arrived two hours early, dressed in a wig and a dapper green waistcoat with silver buttons.
The rooms upstairs were emptied of prior guests, the beds fluffed and made with clean coverlets.
The accommodations for Captain Rackham were ready, and no one could say how long he and his crew would stay in Nassau.
The barmaids dusted and redusted every surface until it gleamed, and Anne swept what felt like the thousandth grain of sand out the back door.
She had to admit, her brush with John had left her with an unpleasant fluttering in her stomach.
But it also infused a bit of energy into her work.
Ellen would have approved. Anne, having never found herself in this situation or in this state of feeling before, didn’t know if she agreed.
For her own sake, she was determined to pay the encounter no more attention. She had a job to do.
The other barmaids assisted Huxley as meaty smells wafted. It was enough to make Anne’s mouth water. She hoped the men might leave enough leftovers for her to snatch a morsel once they retired.
“And the wine?” Anne overheard the owner say.
“Madeira. Nothing but the best. Rackham’s favorite.”
“Better be,” the owner growled. “I’ll be damned if the Black Jib steals any more of our prized clientele. Business hasn’t been the same since they stole Ben Hornigold out from under us. The pissing turncoat.”
After running around in a frenzy, the owner called the full staff together for a meeting. Anne took her cue, lining up shoulder to shoulder with the other barmaids. “Listen well,” the owner said as he paced.
“What are we, soldiers on the front lines?” Anne whispered to Read. “How hungry could these men be?” She’d been trying to establish a friendly tone since her insensitive comment about Read’s wife.
Read half smiled. “I’ve seen worse.”
Anne took the smile as a sign of Read’s forgiveness, if Read had been offended in the first place.
No matter. It was time to put it all behind her: the impertinent question, Anne’s longing for Ellen, the run-in with John—though she’d tucked the buttercup’s stem into her braid.
The silliness caught her off guard. But if the blossom only had a few hours to live, it would be a shame to let it wilt in her pocket.
“As you know, Captain Rackham is a true gentleman. Don’t let his kindly demeanor deceive you.
The man ousted the notorious Charles Vane from his own brigantine through an overwhelming vote from the crew.
Then he took on a French man-of-war with staggering success.
Few are more wanted by the sniveling Governor Rogers, but few are more feared, or respected, in New Providence.
It is the greatest privilege of our establishment to welcome this leader and his men—to show him, and the rest of this town, that the puppet of a new governor has no real rule in these parts of Nassau, a kingdom of free men. ”
A few clapped and cheered. Anne joined, but she noted that he did not include women in his vision of freedom.
Huxley, visibly impatient with the owner’s grand speech, interrupted. “He drinks like a fish and tips well, especially for generous service. You know what to do.”
The staff around Anne seemed to decode this without problem.
Did this have anything to do with the lower-than-usual necklines of most of the ladies in the line?
Anne might have asked Read for clarification, but a growing noise swelled from the street.
A cluster of laughing men approached, their shadows growing in the lanterns hanging outside the windows.
“Positions ready!”
The owner threw open the wooden door, his arms outstretched and his face instantly transformed from stern to warm and friendly. “It’s been too long, Jack. You’re welcome here.”
“There’s no place better for making up lost time with good friends.”
That voice.
Anne didn’t have to look, and she didn’t dare. Her pulse skittered and her mouth hung open. She wasn’t sure what horrified her more: that this was the famed gentleman she’d been told about or how happy she was to see him again.
She snapped her jaw closed and straightened as John—that is, bloody Captain Jack Rackham—entered with his men. Anne stared ahead, abreast of the other barmaids, hoping he would not see her among the others, and hoping like hell that he might.
Mother of God, you’re married, Anne. Get a hold of yourself.
Not according to Brehon law. Not according to my conscience. I settled my debt.
Damn James Bonny if he thinks he is, or ever has been, a true husband.
What nonsense, Anne thought, gathering her wits. Her banter in town with Jack was a single, mostly unpleasant encounter—all things considered. Nothing more.
She was nothing. No one.
And didn’t she mean to keep it that way? To be “just Anne” without a last name until she had enough coin, purchased some false papers, and made arrangements to get off this island?
“Would you be so kind as to put these in my room?” Anne heard Jack say, handing flowers to the owner.
“With great pleasure.”
Anne stiffened. It was the wild bouquet. No doubt a gift for a lover, she realized now. As the patrons made their way inside, Jack stopped in front of her. He wore a new set of brightly colored clothes. Equally flamboyant, perhaps more so.
Lifting her chin, she met his golden-brown eyes directly. They danced with mirth under his black tricorn.
“Curious,” he said, daring to touch, ever so gently, a petal of the yellow alder. Her breath hitched. He winked, then followed the rest of his men to the tables.