Chapter 58
Caribbean Sea
“Bested the famous Jean Bondavais!” Howell bragged, passing around his silver flask. “How ’bout that?”
“Aye, we did!”
“Ran like a sniveling whelp,” said Corner, his cheery cheeks flushed with sun and drink. “Wonderful work today, brothers. You too, Anne and Mary.”
Anne’s hands still stank of powder from running ammunition to the gunners. Everyone had recognized Bondavais’s ship and colors—a famed privateer hired to rid the sea of pirates. The Revenge’s swivel cannons and fast thinking on the part of the whole crew had staved off his attack.
But what was next? How many more raids until they anchored in or near a port?
Anne stared at her splayed fingers in the brightness of the warm October afternoon, the grit of black dust between her nails, then a shadow passed over them.
“Bon?”
Jack took her hand, and she shrank. He’d said little since Anne had confronted him about his behavior the prior week.
He failed to apologize. Instead, he mounted a stronger defense of his “affections.” His advances had only become more frequent, more desperate, when she stopped coming to his bed at night.
He placed a hand on her hip, and she turned away.
“Have it your way. Again.” The edge returned to his voice as he shouldered past her to join the celebration, a bottle in his grip. The sting of his disappointment left her rattled, disoriented—like a slap. Even when she wished it wouldn’t and knew better.
“You all right?” Mary said—quietly, suddenly, at her side.
“Yes,” Anne said. Her mouth dried at the prospect of telling Jack her plan to part ways with him and the crew. His blinding anger. She would have to tell him soon. The moment they were within a rowboat’s distance to Kingston Port, they’d be gone.
Maybe she shouldn’t tell him at all. But in the pit of her heart, hope burned like an ember—that Jack would say he was sorry. That he’d try another tactic, not only in their battles at sea but also in their private conversations.
That she wouldn’t have to lose him, too.
“We passed Trelawny Parish. Did you see the church steeple?” Mary asked.
Anne nodded, adjusting the red kerchief around her neck. They were continuing on, curving around the eastern point of Jamaica with due speed. The bright blue of the clear water seared her pupils. The white beaches stretched on for miles and miles without interruption—a tropical paradise.
“What’s that there?” Earl shouted from behind.
Half the crew moved to the rail, tenting their eyes to see.
“A small little thing,” Corner said.
“Get closer,” Jack ordered. The sails shifted, the canvas greeting a new direction.
Anne sighed, feeling the hilt of her cutlass. Here we go again.
It was a single pirogue. The swift rowboat held not a single shilling, but nine men—mostly English—who claimed they were out “turtling.”
Dubious, given their shifty gazes and the pirate weapons they bore.
But maybe they really were gathering turtles to sell to passing ships.
Turtles needed little to survive and were invaluable to sailors in need of fresh meat on a long journey.
Anne had always adored watching turtles swim with such grace in the crystal-clear bays of the Caribbean.
She never cared for the taste. But at a certain point, taste was of the least of concerns.
And respect for a beautiful creature? A luxury.
Whatever they were doing—whoever they claimed to be—why the hell were they being escorted like kings onto the Revenge?
“Lads,” Jack said, showing the men to the upper deck with a slight swagger, “Meet our new friends.”
Anne saw the marked annoyance on Mary’s raised brow.
“Friends?” Anne asked.
“Potential recruits,” Corner whispered to Anne, loud enough for Mary to hear. “Shipmates!” he then shouted. “Make our guests feel welcome.”
Everyone off duty shook hands with the men. Anne knew Jack was eager for a larger crew, especially with the Mary and Sarah now in their possession. But what of trust, the most important component of any crew?
This desperate approach, taking sailors before they’d proved themselves on an opponent’s ship, was how he was going about it?
“This here is Thomas Baker, John Eaton, and Edward Warner. That large fellow there is Thomas Quick.” Jack bowed, waving his hat toward Quick with humor.
“He looks like a man who can lead a raid.” Jack pushed a bottle of rum into his hands.
“Come! Let’s retire for the day and properly meet these new gentlemen. ”
“We need to clear these waters,” Mary said with a quiet firmness, her shoulders squared.
Jack scowled. “What we need, I assure you, is my top priority as captain. And what we need is recruits, Read.”
He rejoined the pouring of drinks, but Mary spoke again. “This shore is too exposed. Captain.”
“Jack, please listen,” Anne said. She felt her throat constrict with panic.
His jaw hardened, and no one else spoke. He didn’t humor Anne by turning around. Instead, he smiled and poured a glass of rum, handing it to one of the newcomers. “Corner,” he said to his quartermaster, “find us a place to anchor. We have much to discuss tonight.”
A mosquito buzzed in Anne’s ear, and she swatted it away. “We’ll die of swamp fever before we reach the port.”
“Clever, Rackham,” Mary said, sitting beside her on the stern as they watched the blood-orange streaks of the setting sun over Negril’s Bay.
“A swamp might be an ideal hideout, were it not for the woods behind us.” She pointed to the silhouette of land.
“Those hills and trees block the westerlies. It’ll take hours to catch enough wind to get out of here tomorrow morning. ”
Anne leaned back on her palms, glancing over her shoulder to see the men, deep into their cups, halfway down the main deck.
Their faces appeared harsh in the lantern glow, the haze of pipe smoke blurring their features as they dunked goblet after goblet into the bowl of punch.
They were engaging in some kind of drinking contest, the original crew against the turtlers.
Earl played his fiddle, the deep voices of singers dissolving into yowls, more slurred as the evening wore on.
“I don’t know that we are going anywhere in the morning if they don’t stop drinking,” Anne said, turning back as the orb of the sun began to sink into the sea. “They’ve been at it since noon.”
“‘Discussing,’ you mean?” Mary said with a rueful laugh.
Anne smiled with unease. Mary kept fidgeting with her pistol. Creases marked her forehead. It was rare for Mary to be visibly worried.
“We have the coin we need?” Anne asked, shooing away another mosquito.
Mary rested her hands on her belly. She, like Anne, wore the trousers they’d put on for the earlier raid. “Just enough. I’ve set aside the pounds. They are still in the hold—findable, if anyone senses that something is amiss and decides to count. But ready for a quick escape.”
“I’ve stashed a week’s worth of hardtack and some dried beans,” Anne said. “I hid them in the captain’s quarters instead of my berth in case Jack prowls through my effects.” His own cabin was the last place he’d find her.
Mary slapped the mosquito that had landed on her thigh. “These bugs are menaces. I’m calling it a night.” She stood, stretching her legs in the green fade of dusk. “Can’t get enough sleep these days anyway.”
Anne nodded, understanding. Good hell, it took a lot to grow a little human.
Just as Mary was about to leave, Anne threw out an arm. “Do you see that?”
Mary whipped around. She didn’t speak for three terrible seconds. “We’re trapped,” she breathed, stumbling back and sprinting for the men.
Trapped?
Anne’s stomach hit the floorboards as she scrambled up, racing after Mary.
“Ships on the horizon!” Mary bellowed. “They waited until nightfall to attack.”
The men blinked, taking a moment to respond, for the laughter to stop. The music died as Earl’s bow fell from the strings.
“Two of them,” Anne spat out. She found Jack’s eye. “Mounted with dozens of guns.”
We’re under attack.
A gasp escaped from Howell while the others stood—or tried to stand.
Corner rose first, followed by Jack and the others. They passed around the spyglass, but it was too late, too dark. The ships drew nearer.
“Damn privateer! It’s Jean Bondavais again,” Featherstone cursed, kicking the table. He stumbled for balance, nearly falling out of his chair. A bark of muttering.
“We have to surrender.”
The rising chaos ground to a halt as all eyes looked at Mary.
“Surrender, Captain Rackham,” Mary said with slicing clarity. “We don’t stand a chance—not in this position. And if we go quietly, we might be shown mercy. We’ll need it.”
Surrender? Anne’s pulse rose like high tide. She knew the rules: a quick forfeit without waging resistance meant grace. Sparing lives and entering negotiations. They’d followed this principle a dozen times while pillaging others.
And if not …
Anne stared at the others. Waiting for someone, anyone, to act.
“Weigh anchor! Ready the swivel cannons,” Jack yelled to Corner. “That’s an order.”
The men ran, or rather stumbled, into position. Half couldn’t stand. Howell fell flat on his face and Thomas appeared green as he clutched his own gut.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Was anyone in a condition to fight?
Mary grabbed Anne by the elbow. “Get to the armory. Grab extra weapons,” she said. Anne did as she instructed as Mary chased after Jack.
“If we fire, there’ll be no turning back, Rackham,” Mary said.
Anne forced herself to keep moving, to not hear Mary’s pleading voice crack.
No turning back.
She gathered her courage, boots pounding down the ladder as she moved through the armory.
An ear-shattering boom sounded overhead, sending Anne to her knees.