Authors: Hank Manley
“Aye, me lad,” Marty Read said. “If we crew members don’t favor the captain, or agree with the place he wants to take the ship, we vote for a new captain. It be a true democracy aboard
Queen Anne’s Revenge
, as well as the other pirate ships sailing these waters.”
Warren sat back and absorbed this fascinating information. He reached out and scratched the back of Conchshell’s ears. The dog muttered an appreciative low growl and turned her head to lick her master’s hand.
Warren turned his attention to Marty Read. The young man was somewhat of a mystery. He was an accomplished fighter and a respected member of the pirate crew, but possessed a gentle and kind nature. Warren found him strangely compelling. He felt unusually drawn to the young pirate and the sensation
disturbed him
.
Warren suddenly realized he was exhausted. Evening was approaching. He had eaten only a few bites of charred goat since the night before. His only liquid intake had been the mouthfuls of water he had sucked from the well at the pirates’ lair.
He had no idea how long he had been unconscious the previous night in the wildly pitching dory, but he suspected he had slept insufficient hours. His reconnoiter of the lounging pirates had been stressful, and his subsequent capture humiliating and draining.
The leap across the yawning chasm of the two ships had been frightening and intense. His participation in the short battle aboard the French merchant ship
Marseilles
had been of no consequence, but his adrenaline surge to previously unknown heights had been real. Finally, he had worked industriously transferring the captured wine and silk from the French merchant ship.
In the aftermath of the excitement, the calm was hypnotic. The gentle whisper of the water lapping past the hull, with the ship dashing off to some unknown, exotic destination, was mesmerizing. The beauty of the full sails against the cloudless sky was rapturous.
“I need to sleep,” Warren said. “I can’t keep my eyes open another second. Come, Shelly girl,” he said. “Let’s find a place below.”
Warren and Conchshell descended the ladder to the crew quarters below. He selected one of the hammocks and collapsed in the welcoming mesh. The Labrador nestled immediately beneath the swinging bed. Within an instant, both were asleep without a thought or a care in the world.
Marty Read walked to the hammock where Warren slept and tugged on the rope lattice. It was long after sunrise the following day, and the young man hadn’t moved for nearly fourteen hours.
“Good morning,” Warren managed through squinted eyes. “Is it time to get up?”
“Aye, lad,” Marty said cheerfully. “Mr. Oakes said to let ye sleep. But it be time to greet the sun.”
“Whose hammock did I take? I hope I didn’t inconvenience anybody.”
“That be me hammock,” Marty Read said. “Don’t worry. Ye needed the rest. I slept on the floor in a pile of rope.”
Conchshell rolled from beneath the hammock and stretched her legs on the deck. She looked around and yawned loudly.
“Do you know where the ship is headed?” Warren asked. “Are we making our way to Nassau?”
“Nay, it be Charles Town in the colony of South Carolina where we be bound,” Marty Read said to Warren as the boy flopped his bare feet to the deck.
“Charles Town? I’ve never heard of Charles Town. What will we do there?” Warren asked in surprise as he pulled on the red shirt with billowing sleeves and white pants that had been liberated from one of the crew members of the
Marseilles
.
“Captain Teach assembled the entire crew after ye fell asleep last evening,” Marty Read said. “He believes there be no ship guarding the port. He means to anchor in the harbor and capture any ship that makes passage to or from the town. Then we’ll ransack the ship and ransom the crew for medicine and gold and drink.”
Warren tugged on his new leather boots and wiggled his toes inside the supple leather. “Was there a vote on the plan?”
Marty opened his hands in the affirmative. “Aye, lad,” he said with a smile. “I spoke the truth of the democracy aboard ship, and it be so. The crew cast ballots for Charles Town. One of the men voted against the plan, but all the other hands were in favor. Quartermaster Bonnet concurred with the decision.”
Warren stood and stretched his arms upward. His fingers brushed the overhead deck. The low height of the living quarters surprised him. He looked around and realized that cannons lined both sides of the ship on the sleeping level.
The full night of rest had refreshed the young man’s fatigued and confused mind. His thoughts suddenly returned to his mother and the worry she must be experiencing at his disappearance.
Warren had never heard of Charles Town, but he knew he didn’t want to go there. He wanted to sail to Nassau so he could find his way back to Serenity Cay.
Queen Anne’s
Revenge
might be a democracy as Marty Read said, but his vote didn’t count.
“Where can Conch and I get something to eat?” he asked. The rumblings in his stomach took precedence over his concern about the destination of the pirate ship.
Marty Read pointed to the rear of the ship. “The galley be through that hatchway,” he said. “When ye be finished, come up to the main deck. It be a beautiful day for sailing.”
* * *
Warren walked the length of the main deck and climbed the steep, seven-step, ladder to the small, raised platform that surrounded the forward mast. The perimeter of the structure was bordered by a railing. He placed his hands on the top rung and faced the sea.
Queen Anne’s Revenge
was relentlessly rising and falling over gentle, purplish-blue swells. Warren looked at the sun over his right shoulder and estimated the ship was headed in a northwesterly direction.
What was ahead? No land was in sight. Based on the color of the sea, they were in very deep water. The small surface white caps were cresting in the same direction as the ship was moving. The wind was southeast.
The two black jibs stretching from the forward mast to the enormous bow sprit were taut in the fresh breeze. Immediately behind Warren’s back, the huge, twin square sails billowed ahead of the forward mast, full of wind, straining against the ropes that secured the lower corners, driving
Queen Anne’s
Revenge
inexorably to a place the young man did not want to go.
Pure white wake rolled down the sides of the wooden pirate ship. A tumbling boil of water churned out from beneath the stern and left a fragile trail of bubbles and foam to briefly mark the passage of
Queen Anne’s Revenge.
Warren
couldn’t deny the exhilaration
of the
ride. It was a thrill to slash across the open sea, the only sound being the creaking of the ship’s timbers and the crashing of the bow waves back to the azure surface. At once he felt his heart soar with excitement and sink with dread.
Warren admired Captain Teach for his strength and leadership. Blackbeard had spared his life when he could as easily have allowed the crew to hang him. He genuinely liked Marty Read. In fact, he felt a curious attraction to the young man who had been so kind and supportive. Warren briefly wondered if the emotion was appropriate. Then he dismissed the thought. He knew that he had to escape
Queen
Anne’s Revenge
, leave the pirate Blackbeard who had saved him from death, abandon his new friend Marty Read, and find his way back to Serenity Cay.
He looked at Conchshell with her wide, yellow paws beside his hands on the rail. The dog’s tongue lolled from a corner of her open mouth, her breathing deep and contented. Her golden tail flicked side to side with joy and satisfaction.
“You like this pirate life, don’t you Shelly girl?” Warren said with a smile. “You like all the excitement and the noise. You like the freedom of the sea. I like it, too. But I wonder if we’ll ever see home again.”
The ocean lost its Bahamaian color after two days and nights of steady sailing. The bright blue of the sea gradually faded to a sickly green. The sky lost its crystal clarity as a thin layer of scattered cloud drifted across from the horizon, cloaking the ship in a skeletal veil of partial shade.
Midway through the third morning, an excited call sounded from the top of the mast. “Land ho!”
Warren scrambled up the ladder to the main deck from his duties cleaning one of the cannons. Conchshell bounded beside him. He looked to the west and saw the dim, low outline of a vast shoreline.
“Where are we?” he asked one of the able seamen standing by a halyard affixed to the forward rope ladder. The pirate was short of stature with skin burned coppery by the sun. His scraggly beard was flecked with grey, and one of his front teeth was missing.
“That be America,” he said. “And if the captain steered us right, I vouch we’re off the colony of South Carolina.”
“So, we’re approaching Charles Town,” Warren said.
“Aye, lad,” the seaman said with a shake of his head. “But over the protest of me vote.”
“Are you the one who voted against coming here?” Warren asked with feigned casual interest.
“Aye,” the man said with a firm nod. “I don’t favor the waters in these parts. It be impossible to see through it like in the Bahamas. Too many sand bars hidden from the eyes. Too many unseen rocks as well. And too many people not friendly to pirates. It be a far sight safer in the blue waters we left three days ago.”
Warren extended his hand. “I’m Warren Early,” he said. “We haven’t met.”
“Me name’s Robert Gladstone. It be a pleasure.”
The two pirates shook hands and Warren looked directly in the man’s eyes. “I agree that we shouldn’t have left the Bahamas. Maybe there’ll be another vote.”
“Perhaps so,” Gladstone said wistfully. “But not before we find ourselves a peck of trouble, I dare say.”
Captain Blackbeard appeared on the rear deck with Quartermaster Stede Bonnet. Master Oakes emerged from one of the hatchways and took the steering wheel from Boatswain Bostock. The men appeared serious and focused on the navigation.
Warren looked over the side of
Queen Anne’s Revenge
and studied the ocean. He had spent considerable time in his dory navigating the water in Florida and the Bahamas. In the islands, the water was consistently clear, unblemished by runoff from rivers or streams. He had learned to judge depth by the color of the water. Cobalt was very deep. Light blue generally carried eight to twelve feet of depth. White was four feet or less. Heavy dark patches on the bottom were coral heads. Lighter darkness was grass.
In Florida the water was often not as clear because of the influence of the rivers that dumped into the sea through the inlets. Discerning the depth of the water was more challenging. Many times Warren had negotiated unfamiliar shorelines by looking at the behavior of the surface. Steeper, more tightly spaced waves indicated shallower water. Subtler, more widely separated waves suggested somewhat greater depths.
The water beneath the keel of
Queen Anne’s Revenge
was verdant and opaque. Warren guessed the depth at more than twenty feet, but there was no way to be certain. From the intense expressions of the commanding officers of the ship, it was apparent the men were concerned about the approach to the coast.
“Strike the aft main sails,” Mr. Bostock shouted. “Reduce headway.”
Seamen immediately loosened the ropes from the appropriate belaying pins that held the bottom corners of the square sails which were stretched from the aft mast yardarms. Free of their restraints, the twin black canvasses flapped in the breeze until sailors hanging over the yardarms lifted and furled them in place.
“Stand by for soundings,” Mr. Bostock called.
A seaman on the most forward section of the bow twirled a lead attached to a thin line over his head and tossed it in front of the slowly moving ship. He watched it splash in the water and payed out line until the weight hit the bottom. The man noted the position of the water surface on the line which was marked in graduations with colorful pieces of hemp.
“Three fathoms and more, captain!” the sailor announced as he quickly retrieved the device and threw it again.
Warren heard the report and understood the depth to be greater than eighteen feet.
* * *
The shore line gradually became more distinct. The outline of heavily wooded areas stretched unevenly on both sides of the bow.
“Captain,” a sailor shouted from the masthead. “The river mouth be visible ahead; ten degrees to starboard.”
Warren felt the ship make the subtle correction. He looked forward and was able to discern a break in the coastline several miles ahead.
Captain Teach ordered more sails struck. Sailors raced up the rope ladders leading to the forward mast, pulled the luffing sheets up, and secured them tightly to the yardarms with leather straps.
Queen Anne’s Revenge
slowed and sailed cautiously toward the colony of South Carolina and Charles Town. Short breaking waves tumbled along the length of the two long sandbars that reached far into the Atlantic on either side of the channel carved by the confluence of the Ashley and Cooper Rivers. The distinctly brown colored water flowing to the sea helped differentiate the safe passage from the perilous shallow mud flats on either side.
After a torturous two hours of delicate maneuvering and constant soundings, the ship crawled up the slough created by the relentless flow of the rivers, and the
Queen
Anne’s Revenge
finally entered a broad, deep harbor.
“Luff all sails and drop the anchor,” Blackbeard called loudly. The relief in his voice was palpable after the tension of the nerve-wracking approach.
The massive cast iron anchor fell from the bow where it had been suspended by two ropes. The huge splash was immediately followed by the rattle of rapidly disappearing chain. One of the flukes quickly buried in the soft bottom, and the chain stopped.
Queen Anne’s Revenge
slowly fell back against the current, securely anchored in the Charles Town harbor.