Chapter 56
“Where is he?” York sneered when Mary approached, the sun beating down from its watchful position at exactly ten in the morning.
Mary said nothing, feeling the weight of the flintlock pistol in her brace. She dug her heels into the soft sand and reached for the well of deadly calm within her.
York scanned the empty beach behind her, then scowled. “Ye changed the time by two hours, and now the bilge rat has the guts to be late?”
“I’m his second,” Mary said.
“We agreed. No seconds.” He glowered, deep lines grooved into his wiry brow.
“If he fails to show, you’ll be glad I’m here. A position filled. Your word confirmed and honor cleared.”
York snorted, sucking something juicy through his nose, then spit. “I’ll not be killing a woman.”
No, Mary thought. You won’t. “This isn’t a gentleman’s duel,” Mary said. “No rules apply.” Apparently he’d not taken note of her belly.
“The capt’n wouldn’t like this.”
York did not, Mary observed, say anything about not liking it himself.
“The captain wouldn’t approve of you dismissing his judgment and initiating a duel in any case.
Not while you’re on duty under the Articles.
” She had no way of knowing if hotheaded Rackham truly would have disapproved.
But even if he did, men did not withdraw from such a challenge—even dishonorable ones.
Even Thomas. And while Thomas may have deserved such an end, she would not send him here to die.
York stiffened. Mary tried not to study his face. To think about where he came by such a hardened look, the people who’d no doubt loved him, and how he got here—on this stretch of shore—where the fifty-something years of his life would come to an abrupt end.
And it would end. If she’d had a shadow of a doubt, she wouldn’t risk her child.
He paced, his movements twitchy, and Mary stared at the rolling surf. She said nothing for several minutes.
He could forfeit. Put this manly honor nonsense aside.
Save his own hide.
“My patience grows thin,” York said. “We start.”
“Agreed,” Mary said. “Before any of the crewmates who are hunting down provisions find us.”
York shook out his shoulders. He was jittery, puffing out his chest and bracing himself the way she’d seen a thousand inexperienced soldiers do before a battle. “If I can’t kill the rat, at least I can kill his loyal whore.”
Mary almost laughed. But it was a cruel thing to mock a creature that didn’t know it was about to die. His fingers trembled as they gripped his pistol.
“Ten paces each.”
“Aye,” he said, taking a swig from a silver flask.
They stood back to back.
“One … two …”
She breathed, reaching into her calm. She could almost feel Bjorn, hear him marvel at her opponent’s stupidity, his words a warning in the breeze. Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with? Have you seen my wife shoot?
“Eight … nine …”
Only a fool would underestimate her.
“Ten.”
Mary whipped around in a flash, meeting York’s eyes, her pistol firing before he had a chance to steady his shaky aim.
Then the scream. The unmistakable sound of the shot meeting its intended mark before York crumpled.
Silence.
Mary inhaled the acrid burn of gunpowder and fresh blood. Smells she’d vowed to give up. The life of hiding, of killing, that she’d put behind her the night she rode to the chapel to meet Bjorn.
She fell to her knees, unscathed yet wounded. She slowly opened her eyes and studied the weapon in her hand. She hefted the weight of it in her fingers, and her throat tightened.
What are you doing here, Mary? she felt Bjorn say, the feeling of his voice like a caress. Is this what you want? What you need?
It wasn’t just York who’d underestimated her. She’d underestimated herself, her ability to go on without Bjorn.
“What has become of me?” she said aloud.
For a long moment, Mary didn’t move. She willed Bjorn to linger with her, to point her in a better direction. But she was the trained navigator. She was the one left here, alive, with a heartbeat pumping life into another.
Mary stilled, hoping to hear Bjorn’s words emerge again in her mind. Was she mad with grief at last, shipwrecked on the shores of memory? All she heard was the crash of the sea.
“Stay with me,” she whispered into the space between them.
The wind whipped at her dark braided hair until at last, without another glance at York’s body, she stood and turned away, walking along the beach, toward the Revenge readying to make way, toward a future she would no longer leave up to chance.
Not to apathy. Not to fear. And especially not to the reckless whims of Calico Jack Rackham.
Mary returned half an hour later to the noise and commotion of the late morning. The crew was busy hauling fresh water, chopped firewood, and other supplies aboard the Revenge. The Mary and Sarah bobbed, anchored at its side.
The unblinking sun continued its trek across the sky.
The tide rose. The world moved on as if nothing had happened.
But something did happen, and Mary felt the undeniable shift.
Fingers cradling her stomach, she made for the boarding ladder of the Revenge, then paused.
How would she answer for the missing crew member?
She spotted a rowboat hitched to the side of the Revenge. Scanning to see if anyone was watching, she untied it, then tipped it onto its side, filling the transport vessel with stones and water until it sank out of sight.
Whipping around, smoothing out her damp clothes, Mary ascended the ladder to find the rest of York’s effects.
Guilt slithered down her spine as she rifled through his berth—the coins fussed over the night before long gone, likely still on his person.
Then she slipped his single linen bag through a gunport and turned around to search for Thomas.
She found him loading his pistol near the bow, fingers quivering as he stuffed the gunpowder with a ramrod.
“Thomas.”
He glanced up, deep circles forming moons under his eyes. He’d not slept a wink.
She placed a hand on his shoulder, not caring who saw. He inhaled a shaky breath.
“It’s done,” she whispered.
His eyes snapped open. “What do—”
“I took care of it. York is gone.” Friendless brute that he was, they’d likely be halfway to Port Royal by the time anyone noticed his absence. They’d assume he’d abandoned ship in protest.
The ramrod hit the deck with a clank. Thomas stood, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers.
“What of my honor?” he said, staring at his feet. “The crew, what will they think?”
Mary winced. This was what he thought of first? Where were the thanks for saving his life?
“I’ll be scorned. Branded a coward, letting a woman fight my fights.”
Her throat burned as if she’d swallowed seawater. But she hadn’t done it for him, she reminded herself, thinking of the child inside her.
“Who knows? Who saw?”
“The only people still alive who knew about the duel are standing here in this conversation.” She jabbed him in the heart. “You brand yourself with your short-sightedness.”
“Weigh anchor!” Corner shouted as their crewmates sprang to their positions. The sails flapped, canvas catching the wind.
Mary left Thomas without a further word. What more was there to say? A pressure mounted in her head, leaving her dizzy from this fresh gash of sorrow. She moved around the deck, searching for Anne. Find Anne. Find her last friend left.
After ten minutes of scanning Anne’s usual haunts, she found Earl and Howell laughing as they brought in a line.
“Have you seen Anne?” she asked.
“Not since last night,” Earl said, brow glistening as he heaved the rope.
The Revenge lurched, and everyone fumbled for balance except for Mary.
Was Anne still ashore? Her mouth soured. Mary scanned the horizon, the empty beach, the section of the island where she’d left York to rot.
She searched again, this time with more deliberation. She started in the foul-smelling hold, making her way through the berth, then across the rest of the lower deck, until at last, she found her.
Anne stood in the galley, bent over a large iron pot while stirring its steaming contents. The aroma of peas overwhelmed the room.
“I have to tell you something,” Mary said, the words tumbling out as she hurtled toward her friend. Then she stopped dead. “Anne?”
Anne turned away, her cheeks drained of color, the spoon shaking in her grasp.
“Anne,” Mary said, softer, taking her by the shoulders. She searched for a new bruise, but there was none. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Anne said, staring past her.
Mary did not let go of her hold. Her veins constricted. Mary knew the sacredness of privacy, the loneliness of grief. The war between wanting to intervene and knowing when to stand back and avoid risking offense or notice.
Now was not the time to retreat. “I see that something happened.”
Anne blinked, as if unseeing. “I … don’t know.”
“I’m listening,” Mary said. “And not a word of judgment from me, whatever it is. I was about to tell you what atrocities I’ve been up to this very morning.”
Anne’s eyes crinkled, then filled with emotion. She collapsed with a sudden, horrible sob into Mary’s chest. Mary stiffened, shocked, then wrapped her arms around Anne.
“Tell me,” Mary said, feeling her own eyes burn with tears.
And Anne did. Fumbling with language. Struggling with words. Gaps. Self-flagellation and a dozen justifications for Rackham. But it didn’t matter. The truth was there and as clear to Mary as true north. Apparently, this was a pattern when Rackham got drunk.
“Why didn’t I act?” Anne said. “Why didn’t I just leave? The door was right there.”
Mary helped Anne take a seat by the warmth of the stove. The sight of Anne’s rumpled hair, her hollow eyes, made Mary want to kill another man in cold blood that day.
But she knew that would give Anne no relief. Mary’s feelings toward Rackham were her own.
Anne buried her face in her hands. “Curse my own stupidity! My own weakness. Haven’t I learned?
I saw Da’s drunken tirades for what they were.
” She paused to catch her breath. “I stabbed Nathaniel Fulworth. I escaped James Bonny—twice! I wouldn’t let those devils violate me.
But Jack?” Her voice trailed off. “I love Jack. And I know he damn well loves me. How could he fail to see that he was making love to a corpse? How does he see right through me—past me?” She swore again. “Why didn’t he stop?”
“He may love you,” Mary said. “But that—what he did to you—wasn’t love, Anne.”
Anne shrugged, wiping her nose with her sleeve. “I could have stopped him. Said something. I didn’t—I never do. I froze like a fool.”
Mary took Anne’s hands. “Look at me.” Anne exhaled, then returned her look. “That wasn’t love,” Mary repeated. “And it wasn’t your fault.”
“I guess I don’t have a pissing clue what love is anymore,” Anne scoffed, straining to find a bit of humor. It didn’t work. She tore at her hair and wept with renewed bitterness.
Mary moved to sit beside her friend. She tried to pull her knees to her chest, but the bump—the baby—made the gesture impossible. She crossed her legs instead, then massaged her throbbing temple to think.
I can’t leave without Anne. Not now.
But Mary had no right to ask. Or did she? Anne’s choice to retreat into denial or break away balanced on a knife’s edge. It was Anne’s decision, ultimately. Nothing to be pushed. And yet, if there was even the smallest chance that Anne would leave with her, Mary would ask.
They sat together in the unease. Witnesses. Survivors in their own ways.
“It feels as if a cannonball has crashed through every deck of my soul,” Anne whimpered. “I don’t know who I am or what I know anymore. Are all men this way, beneath it all? Is this just the way—”
“No,” Mary said, cutting her off with force.
“No, Anne. I swear it on my life, and Bjorn’s.
” She caught herself, calming her tone. “I’ll add Henry Danby to the list. Captain Southwick.
Your tutor, Monsieur Perrin. Your friends on the Swallow, and half the crew aboard this ship.
” She found Anne’s watchful eyes, that pooling skepticism.
“And if you can’t believe it now, borrow my conviction.
There is a bigger life, and bigger loves, ahead of you.
If that is what you want. If that is what you choose. ”
“Ah, yes,” Anne huffed, touching her stomach. “I have to figure out how to love this sorry baby that ended up with me for a mam. And him for a father.”
“I wasn’t referring to the baby,” Mary said, taking hold of Anne’s fingers and moving them to her heart. “I meant yourself.”
Anne stilled, closing her eyes and feeling her own pulse. She bit her trembling lip and didn’t speak for a full minute.
The pot boiled over, and Mary sprang to attend to it.
“I’m leaving Jack,” Anne said from behind her. “I had to say it aloud before I change my mind.”
Mary exhaled, the steam from the pot coating her skin.
“Then we’ll go together,” Mary said, staring into the bubbling broth, courage rising as she stirred.
Salt stung her eyes. “We’ll go as sisters.
War widows. It doesn’t matter what we tell people.
I can find work as a shipwright. A merchant or a stablehand—I’m good with horses and like them better than most people.
With your swift needle skills and nimble fingers, you can mend sails at any port and complete the task twice as fast as any man.
It wouldn’t be a fortune, but enough to support yourself and a child.
Or you could work as a tutor, a teacher or a governess—making use of your fancy upbringing.
Your fine wit. You’re clever, Anne. Discreet and efficient and capable. ”
Mary could pretend to be a man if she had to, a husband—if they got desperate. Her blood chilled at the thought. No, she wouldn’t pretend. She wouldn’t hide who she was any longer. Never again. “We’ll find a way—we’ll look after each other. And the babies.”
“When do we leave?” Anne said, voice lowered.
They could take the ship’s second rowboat and be gone that same day. But how far could they get? In what direction and with what provisions?
“The next time we make port. Or get close enough. It’ll give us time to prepare.”
As Mary stirred the pot, she craned to see Anne’s subtle nod of approval.