A Sea Too Far (14 page)

Sensing a second attacker to his right, Blackbeard pivoted and delivered a heavy slash to the man’s upraised arm. The blade parted the thin skin and dug into the vulnerable bone. The arm fell uselessly to the man’s side amid a howl of pain and shock.

A third man circled behind Blackbeard and thrust his sword toward the center of the pirate’s back. Instinct and experience allowed Blackbeard to step slightly to one side. The tip of the lethal blade sliced through a flap of coat and passed one inch away from Blackbeard’s kidney.

Seeing the sword suddenly appear beside him, and recognizing his vulnerability, Blackbeard grabbed one of the Blunderbuss pistols hanging from his neck.

A piece of flint had been fitted in the hammer and tightened in place by the vise screw. A measure of gunpowder had been poured down the brass barrel. A lead ball wrapped in a tiny piece of cloth had then been rammed down the barrel. The cloth gave the bullet a tight fit and prevented the projectile from falling out before the weapon was discharged.

A small amount of gunpowder had been placed in the flintlock’s pan, and the steel frizzen had been lowered into position over the pan to hold the tiny charge. The hammer had then been fully cocked from the half-cock, loading, position.

Blackbeard turned and pointed the venerable pistol at the man behind him. There was no sight or aiming device for the notoriously inaccurate weapon, but at close range accuracy was not required. The pirate captain pulled the trigger.

The hammer descended, and the flint scratched down the steel frizzen, shaving off iron and creating a spark. The hammer’s blow also snapped the frizzen back to expose the gunpowder in the pan. The powder ignited, and the tiny explosion flashed through a small hole in the side of the barrel, setting off the full charge of gunpowder inside the barrel.

The round lead bullet was forced out the end of the barrel and came to rest in one of the lungs of Blackbeard’s attacker. The man immediately pitched backward. He dropped his sword, hollered in agony, and clutched his chest. A faint sucking sound issued from inside his shirt.

Blackbeard released the spent Blunderbuss pistol and clawed for a second, loaded weapon.

* * *

Warren heard Marty Read’s shout of pain and witnessed his friend tumble to the deck. Out of the corner of his eye he saw blood beginning to saturate the front of Marty’s shirt. Who would attend to the young pirate’s wounds? Captain Marks was seriously injured. The traitor Robert Gladstone was dead or dying. The other men from Charles Town were intent on further mayhem. They had no interest in helping a wounded pirate.

Conchshell briefly turned her attention to view the plight of her master’s friend Marty Read. The Labrador’s barking and growling and fierce posturing had held Warren’s attackers back. Her display of sharp teeth had succeeded in delaying any harm to either of them, but the dog sensed the men’s growing impatience with the martial encounter.

Warren looked at the three men arrayed in front of him. Each was larger in stature and certainly more powerful. Each undoubtedly possessed more sword fighting experience. A single minute of combat would have been a minute more than Warren possessed as a participant.

Warren quickly assessed the situation. Blackbeard had needed his help, and the young man had stood gallantly by his side. But Blackbeard had already disabled one of his attackers with his sword and shot another with a Blunderbuss. He had more pistols hanging from his neck. Now Marty Read needed help, and he appeared to need it more desperately than Blackbeard.

Warren held up his free hand and slowly, carefully, without removing his eyes from the men standing in front of him, stooped down and placed his sword on the deck. Then he ran to Marty Read’s assistance.

Conchshell snapped her head between the grouping of men facing her master, Marty Read, the bleeding, groaning, friend of her master, and then back to her master as the young man dashed across the deck. The Labrador paid no attention to Blackbeard who was swinging his sword at two men while stepping backward across the deck to gain a strategic advantage.

The loyal dog suddenly bounded after Warren and inadvertently collided with the backs of Blackbeard’s retreating legs. The most feared pirate in the ocean lost his balance from the abrupt collision with the fifty pound Labrador and toppled backward, his arms flailing the air for balance. His sword flew from his grasp and landed on the wooden deck with a clatter. The second, loaded pistol skittered from his fingers when the back of his head slammed into the gunwale of the fishing boat.

~22~
 

Blackbeard’s stumble over the bounding Labrador, and his subsequent fall to the deck, surprised the Charles Town citizens as much as it did the pirate. The loss of his weapons was a further shock.

The back of Blackbeard’s head collided with the hard planking on the side of the boat. He was temporarily stunned. The brief period of incapacity was all the advantage the Charles Town men required. In an instant, four men stood menacingly over the prone pirate with their sword tips pressed firmly against his throat.

“Cease thy resistance,” the first man snarled as he increased the pressure on his blade until Blackbeard’s skin punctured and a drop of blood appeared. “Lie still or as heaven be me witness, I will run thee through and hang thy head from the yardarm.”

“Grab some rope,” a second man yelled. “Let’s make the scoundrel secure so we can deliver him to the governor.”

Blackbeard shook his head to clear the hazy feeling. The effort only served to increase the pressure of the sword blades against his throat. He realized his predicament and decided further resistance was futile. His taut body relaxed, and he sagged on the deck as if deflated.

“Aye, lads,” he said with resignation. “I’ll not resist any further.”

* * *

Warren had skidded to a halt on his knees beside Marty Read who was reclined on the deck with his head propped against the gunwale. The young pirate’s loose shirt was sliced open just below his chest. The silk garment was saturated with blood.

“Somebody open the medicine chest and get me some bandages,” Warren screamed to the gaggle of men who only seconds before had been fighting against him and trying to inflict serious bodily harm.

One of the citizens released a sarcastic snort. “Do ye really think the chest contains medicine? Are ye some kind of fool? There is nothing in the chest except false powders and fake potions.”

“But my friend is hurt,” Warren protested. “He needs help. Are you going to do nothing to help him?”

“There be nothing we can do,” another man said. “The governor sent no medicine. He had us pack the chest with worthless ingredients.”

Warren looked at the men standing behind him as he knelt beside Marty Read. He suddenly understood the scope of the deception by the citizens of Charles Town. Blackbeard’s promise to do no harm to the hostages had been repaid with treachery and lies. The men of the town had acted with dishonesty and deceit. He vowed to avenge the duplicity. But first he had to save his friend.

“Hang on, Marty,” he said kindly. “I’m here, and I’ll take care
of you
.”

Conchshell dropped to her stomach and nestled close to the wounded pirate. She lifted her snout and licked Marty’s smooth face. A sympathetic purring, almost like a cat, sounded in her throat.

Marty Read forced a tortured smile on his face. His eyes were moist and his mouth downturned. He groaned softly as the pain of the laceration raced to his brain.

“Somebody help me get him below to one of the bunks,” Warren said. “I’m going to need a bottle of rum, some thin cotton fishing line, and a sharp needle.”

“I’ll help,” one of the men said. “If thy friend can throw an arm over our shoulders, we can put him in the captain’s cabin.”

“Aye, laddie,” another said. “I’ll get ye some fishing line.”

“I think I know where a pint of rum be stashed,” a third volunteered. “It’s kept aboard for medicinal purposes. I vouch this qualifies as such an occasion.”

With the assistance of one of the sympathetic Charles Town men, Warren staggered to
Fancy’s
tiny cabin with Marty Read. He eased his friend into the narrow bunk and placed his head gently on a pillow.

Conchshell jumped on the foot of the small resting place and curled sympathetically between Marty’s legs.

“Here’s thy rum, some line, and a small rigging needle the crew use to mend the nets. I hope it be useful,” a man said. “Be there anything else ye need?”

“Just get us back to Charles Town as quickly as possible,” Warren said. “My friend will need a bed and some rest.”

“Aye, lad,” the first man said. “The others be tying up thy captain. I don’t know how long that will take. They seem to be using every loose piece of rope on the boat.”

“We need to get Samuel Wragg and his party aboard from the launch,” a second man added. “They had a scuffle with the other pirate rowing the launch. He went overboard, and me thinks they be trying to bring him aboard
Fancy
for delivery to the governor.”

“Just give us some air,” Warren said in exasperation. “Everybody get out of the way. I need to help my friend.”

When the men finally traipsed out of the diminutive room, Warren pulled the cork from the bottle of rum and placed the opening to Marty’s lips.

“Take a few sips,” he said. “It will ease the pain.”

“Aye,” Marty said. “Thank ye for thy assistance.”

“Now let me get a look at that wound,” Warren said. He unbuttoned Marty Read’s shirt completely and spread the sides of the garment wide, exposing the young pirate’s entire stomach and chest.

Confusion wrinkled Warren’s forehead. “What’s this?” he said. “What’s this wrapping around your chest?”

Marty Read lowered his chin and closed his eyes. He shook his head slowly back and forth. His expression was a combination of shame and humiliation. “I wanted to tell thee . . .” he said softly. “I wanted to tell thee because I knew ye were feeling something . . . something strange.”

Warren held up his hand to silence Marty Read. “The wrapping is all bloody. I’ve got to remove it to see your wound and fix it. We’ll . . . we’ll talk about this later. It doesn’t matter why . . .”

Marty Read reached out and took Warren’s hand. He held it softly in his fingers and slowly brought it near his lips. With his eyes closed, and tears of disgrace and pain and confusion and tenderness leaking down his cheeks, the young pirate placed a delicate kiss on the boy’s knuckles.

A wave of lightheadedness swept over Warren. He struggled to swallow as his mouth turned dry and his throat constricted. “I’ll try to be careful,” he squeaked past his desiccated tongue.

With exaggerated caution, Warren unwrapped the bloody silk cloth around Marty Read’s torso. With each revolution, more of the boy’s chest was exposed until finally two firm, small, creamy female breasts sprang proudly above a hard, flat stomach.

“You’re . . . you’re not a boy,” Warren stammered. “You’re . . . you’re a beautiful girl. I always thought something was . . . I wasn’t sure, but something . . . something never seemed . . .” He stopped and shook his head. “I don’t know what I’m trying to say.”

“My name is Mary. Please call me Mary.”

Warren looked at Marty . . . no! Mary . . . Read. He kept his gaze on his . . . no! her . . . eyes, completely embarrassed to be in such close proximity to her erect breasts. Warren’s mind spun with questions. He felt his face flush. Then a new feeling drifted through his mind. He felt happy. He felt relieved! A broad smile spread across his crimson face.

“Hello, Mary,” he said finally. “It’s my pleasure to meet you, at last. Now, just give me a few minutes. I’m going to take care of that wound just below your . . . on your . . . right here,” he concluded as he gently traced below the bloody laceration with his fingers.

The young man splashed rum on the ten-inch long open wound and washed the torn skin clean of blood and germs. He doused rum on the rigging needle and then threaded a piece of thin cotton fishing line through the eye and carefully, gently, tenderly pierced the skin on one side, crossed the open slash, poked through the opposite side, and tied the first section of the wound closed with a simple square knot. The two bleeding sides of the laceration began to fuse together the moment they touched.

“Keep sipping on the rum, Mary,” Warren said. “I’ve got about twenty more stitches to make. I don’t mean to hurt you with the needle, but this is the best way to treat the wound. I saw my father stitch up a friend just like this when we were offshore fishing. We were on a three day trip, and the man cut himself deeply with a knife. Nobody wanted to go home; so my father took care of it.”

Mary Read grimaced and tipped the rum bottle back to pour another drop in her mouth. “I trust thee,” she said with a strained smile. “But don’t make such a pained face when ye poke me with the needle. It makes me want to cry for thee.”

“I’ll try,” Warren said with a small grin. He threaded another length of line through the needle and prepared to take another stitch. He couldn’t recall a time in his life when he had felt so fulfilled.

Conchshell looked up from her repose at the foot of the bunk. She inched closer to Mary and placed her head on the young girl’s hip. The Labrador released a low hum of satisfaction.

Mary rested her long fingers on the dog’s head and scratched behind her ears. “Good girl, Shelly,” she said. “Good girl.”

~23~
 

Warren sat on the edge of the narrow bed in the tiny room above the Boar’s Tooth Tavern and Inn. Mary Read lay under a thin blanket with her head resting on a flimsy goose feather pillow. Fortunately, she had remembered the make-shift purse that she had originally taken to Charles Town. She reminded Warren to bring it ashore with them when they staggered off
Fancy
. The knotted bandana contained more than enough gold coins to pay for the room and purchase food for the two pirates for an indefinite stay.

Warren had staggered from the fishing boat
Fancy
to the adjacent street with Mary’s arm draped over his shoulder and her feet plodding heavily alongside. He had managed to hail a farmer with a mule-drawn, two wheeled cart and convinced the old man to drive them to the Boar’s Tooth. With difficulty, he had negotiated the narrow stairs, half carrying and half dragging Mary to their assigned room. Then he had placed her carefully in the bed and collapsed beside her on the floor.