“Lola! Come here!” Annie yelled. I waited a minute and then appeared before them. “Show them your finger,” she ordered. I obediently lifted my left hand to reveal the injured stump. The captain looked over at Rogers for guidance.
The governor nodded toward Anne and said, “I know this woman to be honest and trust her account.” The Frenchmen conferred with each other, apologized for the misunderstanding, and left even more disoriented than when they’d arrived. I knew that having savored the wonderful tang of rash bravado, Mrs. Bonny would be needing that rush again soon.
At this point I’d have to say Jack and Anne were truly in love. And Jim was pissed. Knowing Jim wanted to pay off his debt to Pierre, Rackham made an honorable divorce-by-purchase offer to buy Anne’s freedom. The men had all but agreed on the price when the furious woman appeared on her own account and refused to be sold like an animal. Now, Jim was even more pissed—having neither wife nor money—and vowed to teach the adulteress some measure of respect. Meanwhile, Rackham was making quick raids against the Spanish—because his lover’s expensive tastes were rapidly depleting his savings—sailing with various privateer captains in search of easy pickings. I could tell whenever Jack was back, though, because Anne’s room would stay locked for days. And I knew that it was serious because she wasn’t messing round with no one else.
Now Rackham had acquired the moniker “Calico Jack” because while other swashbucklers reveled in flaunting the forbidden fabrics of the nobler ranks (satins and silks and velvets), he preferred the Calcutta cottons fashioned for him by Pierre. Originally born in Bristol, he now worked out of Cuba, where it was rumored he had several women and a makeshift family of very good friends. I have to say in his defense that he was generous with money, cheery and popular, if at times a little lazy. But I could tell beneath all that flamboyance he was ruthless, just like his woman. See, last year Jack was Captain Vane’s quartermaster but took command of their brigantine after Vane refused to engage with a French man-o’-war. Rackham accused Vane of cowardice so the crew voted to oust their former leader, and as the ensuing cruise was very profitable without the unnecessary cruelties so often accompanying Vane, Jack was readily confirmed the new captain until he took the pardon and switched to legal privateering.
On one of his visits Jack brought along George Fetherston. George had toffee-rich eyes set in a rather determined face, and although he wasn’t flashy like Rackham I found him quite entertaining. He was a big-boned man with slightly receding hair, a jovial, deep laugh, and a joke for every occasion. But what I liked best was his voice—he sang like a thoroughbred gypsy and was always the first to start off the shanties. When I told him I’d once been a dancer he kept asking me to demonstrate this step or that, and soon I’d revived the magic that I’d tried to suppress in my blood. See, ever since I’d lost my finger I thought men would find me repulsive—deformed—that I’d no chance of finding a partner. I was still lithe and nimble, with bigger breasts and shapelier calves, but at that silly age when just a crooked tooth could make all the sweet seem useless. But George made me feel the most special on earth, and for that I will always be grateful. We slid into a comfortable groove, and he ensured that I’d always got a steady supply of patients before that wondrous summer so abruptly ended, when James Bonny decided to have his revenge.
Of course, Jim waited until Rackham was absent before storming into Pierre’s shop, grabbing Anne by the wrist, clicking a flintlock at her ribcage, and forcing her to appear before Woodes Rogers to answer a formal charge of adultery. The cuckolded husband was careful not to implicate himself in any nefarious doings as he lodged his self-righteous complaint against Calico Jack Rackham. The governor, while mindful of Annie’s favor, agreed that a moral example needed to be set, so he ordered Mrs. Bonny to receive a dozen lashes in the marketplace after the coming Sunday service. Anne was so livid that her face turned scarlet—and if Jim saw the rage of her scowl his stomach must have tied in a monkey fist. For today was only Tuesday. . . . Who knew what Annie might do?
I didn’t have to wait to find out. First off, she told me something else I hadn’t known about Blackbeard. In the days before Teach fell out with Captain Jennings he’d built a watchtower on a hill outside of town with panoramic views of the waters. At the base his crew erected their tents and here, apparently, Blackbeard used to conduct business. She and Jack had walked there one day—and agreed that if ever she were in trouble when he was at sea she would light a bonfire on the peak. We set off to spark that signal, knowing there was a good chance it’d be spotted because we knew the privateers’ favorite haunts. So we fed the snaking flames long into the night until sooty and hungry and weary. And as we sat staring past the crackling sparks Annie looked over at me and asked curtly, “Why are you helping me?”
I was stunned. I really couldn’t answer. Perhaps because I was used to doing as she ordered? Or because I still owed her some years from my life? What is it that makes the kicked puppy return to its master knowing the welcome will spurn only further abuse? If anything, I guess it was habit—borne on the wind of an attachment my tongue couldn’t never have named. I needed Annie’s acceptance, and the more she withheld that approval the hungrier my craving became. She had some strange power over me, but why that worked so effectively I just didn’t know. Maybe she was stronger and cleverer? Or did I submit in preference to remaining invisible? It seemed that any sense of self came refracted from my mistress . . . and I thought to have escaped that bind . . . but some things never change.
I shrugged my shoulders at Anne’s strange question and stared at her ruby eyes burning in the firelight. “What’s your plan then?” I asked.
“Devil be damned if I take their thrashing . . .” she hissed. “If Rogers wants to mess with me I’ll hit him where it hurts hardest!”
“In the crotch?” I assumed naively.
“In the pocket!” was her retort. Then she rapidly explained the scheme that had simmered to boiling. When Rackham returned they’d steal a sloop and go cruising together between here and Cuba. They’d specifically target vessels bound for Nassau and hold the whole of the island to ransom. As she grew more excited she gabbled that I could come too as surgeon (if I wanted to be with George—who would surely prefer to sail under his friend’s flag), yet we’d have to pretend to be men when fighting or the victims wouldn’t be scared. We’d need at least another eight or so hands, but once word got round that Rackham was looking, there’d be plenty of privateers who’d willingly recant their pardons. And they’d be crew enough who’d sail with women when they realized the hidden advantages. She planned to strike on Saturday—if Jack wasn’t back then we’d sail out to meet him—and my job was to make Rackham’s new flag, a skull above two crossed cutlasses. Annie seemed to have it all worked out and I wondered how long she’d been brewing this scheme.
By Wednesday morning the smoke at the watchtower had dwindled away to a single gray rope. I set to work on the flag, but Pierre ensured that Anne paid full for the cloth while fussing and flapping continually in the background. He said he would help with whatever was going down but didn’t want to know the specifics. I wondered why he was so agitated, and thought perhaps he felt slighted having not been invited to join. But I didn’t know how to broach the subject without giving away any secrets, and Annie hadn’t once mentioned bringing him along. Meantime, she was busying recruiting among the drunks as they rolled from the sand into consciousness. Anne avoided those who frequented Jim’s bar and those who’d never been outlaws, and stumbled upon one of Vane’s old mates who agreed to stand vote as quartermaster. Assuming my consent, she bid them all meet up together in the apothecary Saturday noon, and if half of those approached showed willing we’d have enough to take down a sloop.
Thursday, after I’d finished my sewing, I was sent to market for fresh supplies. Pierre eventually agreed to get the rum and ale so we wouldn’t need to go through Jim, and Annie worked down her list for everything else. In the afternoon we tried out our male disguises, packed personal trunks, and ensured we’d plenty of suitable medicines. Pierre brought over new barrels for water and under cover of darkness we filled these using buckets at the well. This work was thoroughly exhausting and by early evening we were fatigued enough for bed. I’d just slipped into a deep warm sleep when the sound of creaking footsteps crashed my senses. I raised my head to listen more clearly, and heard Anne’s delighted cry to welcome Jack home. And suddenly it seemed like this crazy scheme might actually work—now someone who knew what they were doing was at the helm. I snorted my relief and rolled back into carefree surrender.
Friday morning was a whirl of comings and goings, whispering and plotting, checking and sorting and storing, but now that Jack was back, me and Pierre had lost all usefulness. That same day the pair took a walk on the sand to pick out a likely target—they were going after a sloop called
William
, which they’d turn into the
Revenge
. But while they were gone Pierre came purposefully into the apothecary, pulled up a chair, and asked me to sit down alongside. I could see something was bothering him.
“Lola,
ma chérie
,” he said in a solemn tone, “do you intend going back like the dog to the vomit?” It hadn’t really occurred to me I had a choice. So I nodded dumbly. Pierre looked at me with the saddest expression and quietly swore some French oath under his breath. He took both of my hands in his grasp, stared into my wavering eyes, and asked, “And how do you think all this . . . this . . . madness will end?” I hadn’t thought. Not that far, anyway. So I looked away from his gaze. “It will end badly. . . .” he predicted. “Very very badly.” Letting go with one hand he made a sign that indicated a noose around the neck. “Think of the great buccaneers—Kidd and Blackbeard and Vane and all the others—and then think of Anne and little Lola. Ahhh! My heart grows heavy from the worry. I have not slept well since the governor came to the shop. We were
this
close to being caught,” he said, holding up two fingers a half inch apart. “. . . This close.” His cheeks wobbled in frightful memory.
“Annie wants me to go,” was all I could think to respond. “And George . . .” I started to say, but then thought better and stopped my tongue.
“George Fetherston?” he asked in dismay. “And what is this man to you?”
“I . . . I’m not sure yet,” I answered. I nibbled my bottom lip in despair. Why was Pierre upsetting our plans? And why was he asking me questions I couldn’t answer? “He’s kind to me,” I muttered. “I know that he likes me.”
My friend patted my hands and explained, “Many men out there find you attractive. You deserve better than this . . . this inferior pirate.”
I looked down at my mangled finger and turned to stare at the floor. Pierre followed my sight and realized how vanity had lowered all feeling of self-worth, so he squeezed my palms and said gently, “You do not have to go because you are told to. And why give your loyalty to Anne who cares nothing for you?”
“But she’s my . . .” I tried to argue.
“She cares nothing,” he repeated. “And this George will forget you the moment he sees another skirt.” He paused for emphasis and then added, “I tell you this as the good friend—take care of your own life.” I heard the words coming from his mouth but I couldn’t accept their meaning. Something was obviously gnawing away at the Frenchman’s thoughts. He finally let go of my hands and sat back on his chair looking at me with one arm flung over the back rail. “It is my deep regret that I said nothing to save you before. . . .”
“Before?” I mumbled. “When?”
“When you came with that terrible man from Blackbeard’s ship.” He reddened with anger, or embarrassment, and continued, “I was the coward not to warn you. I should have forbidden it!” He put his hand to his brow and pushed back his hair.
“Will Howard?” I asked. Then I gave a brief chuckle and said, “He was the best of the lot!” But I could see the regret on my friend’s screwed-up brow. “It’s not your fault, Pierre. I hold you no blame.”
“Thank you,
chérie
,” he whispered. I could see he was drowning in accountability but I hoped I’d put him at ease.
“So you think it’s more dangerous now to get caught?” I asked. And recalling the flippant remarks I’d heard bandied around the inn, said boldly, “But who’s to say we won’t be granted another pardon?”
He held my eyes and said pointedly, “
Non.
I am sure there will be no more pardons. And I do not believe
you
should go.”
“But they need a surgeon. . . .” I argued.
“And when they do not require nursing how do you think the men will use the women? You will not have Blackbeard’s protection this voyage. . . .” And I started to see the cruise through masculine eyes. “I am frightened for you,” he confessed. “I have the bad feeling . . . here . . . in my bones.” He pointed to his chest and I was overwhelmed by his passionate concern. Pierre scratched his chin and then continued in his own unique manner by asking, “Lola—does the fish know that she is wet?”
“What?” I exclaimed. I didn’t have no clue what he meant.
“The fish . . . she knows only the water around her,
n’est-ce pas?
You are the fish, Lola.” I looked at him with a puzzled frown. He continued, “But there is another way through the water, where you do not have to ride the same wave as everyone else. You can swim. You can be like the salmon and move against the tide.”