Authors: Hank Manley
Other pirates roused from their slumbers. Several assessed the situation and elected to slink away and hide below in hopes of avoiding discovery and arrest. All efforts would prove futile.
The hatch in the raised stern castle that led to the captain’s quarters flew open. Anne Bonny stood defiantly in the passageway. A sword was clasped in each hand. Two pistols hung from lanyards around her neck. Her eyes burned with a mixture of maniacal joy and fierce determination.
Calico Jack appeared behind Anne. He eased around her and surveyed the main deck. Only three of his pirates remained, and just two were armed with swords. The rest of his crew were conspicuously absent. Thirty sword–wielding members of
Liberty
stood ready for action on board
Vanity.
“It be futile,” Calico Jack said hopelessly. “There be too many to fight.”
“Nay,” Anne Bonny said in a voice pitched high with nervousness and excitement. She stepped forward and approached four of the navy sailors. Her arms whirled as she slashed her swords wildly in the air. The taller, stronger, more experienced men casually side-stepped her frantic efforts and parried her ineffectual thrusts with basic defensive blocking motions.
“Fight, ye miserable sons of lowly wenches,” Anne shouted in exasperation. The frenzied pirate woman charged toward one of the men and stabbed her sword in the direction of his chest.
The navy sailor moved casually to one side, avoiding the thrust. He reached over Anne’s extended arm, grabbed her wrist, and held her in a powerful grasp.
“Hold thy sword, madam,” he said sympathetically. “A wise pirate knows when it be time to give up his arms.”
“I’ll not be treated thus,” Anne said sharply. Anger at the cavalier comportment of the navy sailor increased her fury. She managed to pull her arm free and retreat a full step. With renewed energy Anne charged her foe, her twin weapons slicing the air.
The sailor held his sword horizontally in front of his body. Anne’s blades crashed ineffectually against his extended weapon. The jangle of the sharp collision of tempered steel against tempered steel sang through the empty rigging. Her two swords rattled in her hands.
Anne dropped the blades. The weapons clattered to the deck. She reached for the two pistols swinging around her neck. Her hands grasped the wooden butts of the Dragoon flintlocks. Her fingers sought the triggers, but she was unable to raise the pistols and bring them to bear against her adversaries.
A pair of powerful hands locked Anne’s arms to her sides. The female pirate was rendered helpless in the grasp of one of the navy sailors. “Calm thyself,” the man urged. “It be off to prison for thee in Port Royal. I vouch a judge will have thee swinging from a tall tree before the fortnight arrives.”
Anne Bonny looked at Calico Jack who had calmly watched the valiant struggles of his paramour from the hatchway beneath the stern castle.
“If thee had fought like a man,” Anne screamed in frustration and anger, “ye would not be on thy way to hang like a dog.”
Warren and Mary pushed the little sailing dinghy into the surf and spun it around so the bow faced the ocean. The young man boosted Conchshell over the gunwale, helped Mary to clamor aboard, and then swung his body over the side.
Two and a half miles away, across the cobalt sea, the British Navy ship
Liberty
led
Vanity
, the conquered pirate ship now under the command of sailors of the Crown, back toward Port Royal.
There was no doubt in either Mary’s or Warren’s mind that their friends Calico Jack Rackman and Anne Bonny had been defeated and were in chains with the rest of the buccaneer crew. Their fate was also not in question. The British Crown was determined to end piracy in the waters of the Bahamas and the Caribbean Sea. Pardons had been offered to pirates to sway them from their nefarious ways. Those who accepted were allowed to continue living. Some even joined the navy. But those who defied the Crown and were caught were tried and hung without mercy, women included.
Warren raised the sail and set a heading to catch the wind and put as much distance as possible from the shoreline and any dangerous reefs or rocks. The little dinghy was their only hope of salvation. To dash it against a coral head and sink was to guarantee death.
The passage from Point Negril was considerably more somber than the joyous sail toward the enchanting beach. Warren steered the dinghy with one hand and rested his chin in the palm of his other hand. Suddenly he missed his mother and father more than ever. His eyes misted as he thought of the anguish he was causing his parents.
Warren rarely experienced frustration. His father had taught him that any situation, any problem, could be solved by clear thinking and hard work. Frustration was the result of an incorrect analysis of the challenge and inadequate efforts to affect redemptive measures.
The young man had determined that Nassau was the key to returning to his family and Serenity Cay. He had made repeated efforts to achieve that goal, but events beyond his control had continually intervened.
Blackbeard had decided that he wanted to sail to Charles Town rather than put in at Nassau after subduing the French merchant ship. Master Oakes had dropped him off in Nassau after the voyage from Charles Town, but his visit had been so brief, Warren had not been able to find anyone to direct him to Serenity Cay. The few people he had asked, even knowledgeable people like Calico Jack Rackman, had sworn the island did not exist.
Anne Bonny’s jealous husband had caused him to be marked as a wanted pirate and forced to hastily depart Nassau. Perhaps someone in the pirate refuge ultimately could have directed him back to Serenity Cay, but Warren was in full flight from the wretched place less than twenty-four hours after his arrival.
What could he do?
If he had never met Mary, would he have been successful reaching Serenity Cay? No! Warren shook his head to banish the thought. Mary was not at fault. Suddenly, he couldn’t countenance the idea of life without Mary. His feelings toward the young woman had progressed to the point where he dared entertain the idea he might actually be falling in love.
Warren leaned closer to Mary and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he said, forcing confidence into his voice. “I’ll think of something. There’s always a way.”
Mary turned and looked at Warren. She fought to suppress the fear she felt in her heart. They were alone on the vast Caribbean Sea in a tiny boat. They knew nothing of the water. She had heard of Port Royal, but she had never been to the harbor. She didn’t know how far away it was.
“I vouch we cannot sail to Port Royal,” she said after considerable thought. “If we be recognized by any of the crew from the Spanish merchant ship, it be certain that we be joining Captain Jack and Anne Bonney on the gallows.”
“Yes,” Warren said. “I thought of that. Port Royal is probably the closest harbor of refuge, but it would be our last port-of-call. We better sail back to the Bahamas. I hope I can figure out how to do it. I know the general direction is to the northeast, around Cuba, then back to the northwest.”
“I remember some islands on the way. I think we passed at least three from Nassau,” Mary said. “Perhaps we will recognize them as we sail past. They might have fresh water.”
“And maybe a flying fish will land in the boat and we can have something to eat,” Warren said with a wry smile.
Conchshell lay in the bilge of the dinghy with her head on her crossed paws. She understood the desperation of the situation and wrinkled her forehead with concern. She contemplated a small growl of encouragement but decided to save her strength for the long passage ahead.
* * *
The sun dropped relentlessly toward the western horizon. The fiery ball hung just above the surface of the ocean and then appeared to droop as it kissed the cloudless junction of earth and sky. Moments later it disappeared. A green flash of light burst from the vanishing point, and then the heavens faded to a dull gray background for the first appearance of the North Star.
The air cooled, and Warren shivered slightly. “Are you going to be warm enough?” he asked Mary. “I could let you wear my shirt over your blouse.”
“Nay,” Mary said. “I’ll be fine. If it be too cold, we’ll lie together for warmth. Perhaps thy dog will join us with her nice coat of fur.”
Warren looked to the darkening sky and watched the constellations form as the stars grew in brightness. He concentrated on the North Star, knowing that it was the only visible light that never moved in the heavens. With this single reference point, Warren maintained a course that would eventually take the little dinghy out of the Caribbean Sea, and toward the southern Bahamas.
Mary closed her eyes and fell asleep in the bottom of the boat beside Conchshell. The breeze was benign and the motion of the dinghy comfortable. The sail stayed full and there was no flapping of the sheet to disturb the young woman.
Warren fought to keep his eyes open and maintain a proper course. The effort was too great. He finally contorted his body in the stern of the little boat, wrapping one leg over the tiller to hold it in position, and fell into a troubled slumber.
* * *
Morning broke slowly. An angry sky hung low over the ocean. Black clouds hovered close to the surface and rain spit down on the three occupants of the dingy. Mary woke first. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. She glanced at Warren wrapped uncomfortably around the tiller. Her heart ached for the young man who was trying so valiantly to be brave and assuage her gnawing fears.
Conchshell yawned and struggled to her feet. Increased wind roiled the sea, and four foot tall waves slapped at the dinghy and rocked the hull rudely from side to side.
Mary twisted in the confines of the dinghy and leaned toward Warren. She stretched and kissed him tenderly on the cheek, then rubbed his shoulder sympathetically. “Wake up,” she whispered. “It be raining. We must gather some rain water for us to drink.”
Warren opened his eyes and stared at Mary and Conchshell. For a moment he couldn’t recall how they had arrived in the dinghy. Then he remembered the capture of
Vanity
and their sail from Point Negril, Jamaica. The events felt like years ago. His carefree afternoon on the beach with Mary seemed no more than a vague recollection.
Warren uncoiled his body from the tiller and rubbed his joints to restore circulation. He looked around the boat. There was no land in sight. The sky was slate gray as far as he could see. White caps tumbled off building swells. The clouds seemed poised to press directly against the ocean surface. Rain splattered his face. He licked his lips and savored the minimal drops of sustenance.
“Look, Warren,” Mary said. Her voice shook with nervousness. “Look at that cloud. It be dropping from the sky.”
Warren turned his attention to the direction of Mary’s concern. He knew exactly what he was looking at. A black column of spiraling, twisting wind began to descend from the cloud directly above the dinghy. The water around the little boat began to shake and swirl. Fat rain drops slammed to the surface of the ocean.
Mary and Warren looked skyward. The rapidly twirling cyclone of cloud rushed directly at them. At the same time, the sea around the dinghy began spin violently and a salty circle of the ocean’s surface rose and sought to join the rotating wind approaching from above.
The two forces collided midway between the ocean and the dark blanket of overhead cloud. The wind in the deadly waterspout increased to over one hundred thirty miles-per-hour. The dinghy began to revolve at a frightening pace that caused Warren and Mary to clutch the sides of the craft in order to remain aboard. Conchshell pressed against the bottom of the boat and whimpered with fear.
The speed of the rotation snapped Warren’s head back and slammed it against the side of the dinghy. Mary watched, helpless, as the young man slumped unconscious in the bilge. A moment later the violent whirling of the little boat slapped her head against the gunwale, and Mary joined Warren beside Conchshell, comatose in the bottom of the dinghy.
The tiny vessel lifted from the sea. Free of the restraint of the water, it spun even more rapidly in the water-born tornado until the energy in the bizarre phenomenon faded and the dinghy crashed back to the surface of the ocean, devoid of its passengers.
Warren awoke to the pressure of the gentle hand shaking his shoulder. He opened his eyes and realized he was lying in the bottom of his own sailing dory. He looked into the kindly eyes of a dark face deeply lined from many decades in the sun.
“Are you alright, boy?” the man asked with genuine concern. “What are you doing here?”
Warren struggled to sit up. He glanced around and noticed Conchshell happily chasing pelicans that were diving in the water just off the beach. “Where am I?” he asked with obvious confusion.
“Why, you’re at Warderick Wells in the Exumas,” the man said. “Where did you come from?”
Warren rubbed his head. Where
did
he come from? “I’m trying to get back to Serenity Cay,” he said. “Do you know where it is?”
The man smiled. “I’m the warden of the park here at Warderick Wells. I wouldn’t be much of a park ranger if I didn’t know where Serenity Cay was located.”
“Do you really know where Serenity Cay is?” Warren asked again in disbelief. “I’ve asked a hundred people, and you’re the first one who has heard of it.”
“I find that surprising. Serenity Cay is a well known place.” The warden then paused and wrinkled his forehead in thought. “Wait a minute. Are you the missing boy I heard about? There was a bulletin describing somebody from Serenity Cay lost in the hurricane.”
Warren rubbed his head. “I guess that’s me,” he said impatiently. “But please tell me, how far is Serenity Cay from here?”
“It’s not too far,” the ranger said. “Perhaps it’s only a day’s sail. But I hope you’re not planning to set off in this little dory alone.”
“I won’t be alone,” Warren said. “I’ll have my dog with me.”
The park ranger smiled. “I was really thinking of some adult supervision.”