Chapter 57
Spanish Town, Jamaica,
We’ll look after each other.
And the babies.
Anne punched a fist into her cot, letting out a scream that echoed through the dark corridor of the garrison.
She stood and cursed, slamming her sweaty palm into the stone wall, the hit vibrating through her elbow to her toes.
She steadied herself, bracing for calm through bared teeth, the other hand holding the bulge of her enormous stomach.
The weight had shifted lower, sitting like a boulder on her bladder.
Any second now, this would end and the child would arrive. Her lower back ached with anticipation.
I’ve failed you, Mary.
The letters, still unwritten, were laid out on the floor, visible in the dim light. The paper. The ink.
“I’ve failed,” Anne wheezed. Why couldn’t she go to Mary now in her time of need—be there as Mary had been there for her so many times before? Who insisted on keeping them apart like this, in isolation, when the men from their crew had been allowed to share a cell?
Why didn’t we leave when we had the chance?
Anne paced the straw-covered floor with her swollen bare feet, fury galloping through her veins.
She looked everywhere but at the blank paper and writing materials Captain Johnson had left that morning.
She’d spent the past two of her four months in jail toying with him while he extracted what he wanted from her.
She’d spent countless silent moments thinking about getting her hands on the tools she needed—what to say, how and why to say it.
But now that she had the chance to write it all down, her whole body trembled with fear. She had limited ink. Could she say the right thing? Make a case to the right people?
Could she trust herself?
And even if she could, could she trust Captain Johnson to do her one final favor?
Anne threw her head back and howled. It didn’t matter if she shrieked or stayed silent as a ship mouse—no one came. No one ever came.
Was she too late?
You’re clever, Anne. Discreet and efficient and capable.
Ellen had said so too: more clever than you give yourself credit for. Stop underestimating yourself—it’s irritating.
Anne’s jaw tightened with resolve, and a vein in her throat twitched. She was raised for this, was she not? Stuffed into a chair, made to study laws, politics, and arguments ever since she was a child in Ireland? She was a bloody lawyer’s daughter.
She snapped her gaze back to the piles of paper, then knelt in front of them, resting her hands on the ball of her stomach. She pictured the faces of the recipients.
Ellen Fulworth, she thought, putting aside a stack of pages. She had no idea where Ellen was, but she must be somewhere in the Caribbean. Maybe someone in power here could trace down Mr. Fulworth.
Captain Eford. That is, if he hadn’t taken Bonny’s betrayal as a sign to abandon the Tropics, change his name, and retire somewhere near his grown children.
Jack’s “family” in Cuba. She knew where they could be found in Havana. She also knew they were experts in all matters related to piracy.
Henry Danby. Good luck finding him. But Mary said he was campaigning. Perhaps the English army knew where he was?
Bartholomew Roberts, she noted with a touch of whimsy. Rumor said that this dreaded captain was actually a woman. If so, perhaps she’d intervene on their behalf? Mary would shoot every shot she had, so Anne would too.
Another pile. More names. More chances.
Da? She cringed with revulsion. Then she remembered Mary’s child as well as her own. She would swallow her pride and the values she held dear—just this once. Him, too.
And if him, then why not the Devil himself?
She breathed through her mouth, cooling off her temper. Might as well start with her foulest, most delicate plea of all, before she could stop herself. Governor Woodes Rogers was a lost cause. She was thinking of someone else, a wizened face from the courtroom.
She snatched the wooden stool to use as a hard surface to write on, then dipped her quill into the inkpot and began to write:
To His Excellency and Governor of Jamaica, Sir Nicholas Lawes …