Read Fire on Dark Water Online
Authors: Wendy Perriman
Fire on Dark Water (18 page)
Now, back in 1717, Providence had become the choice place of outlaws since Ben Hornigold and Tom Barrow proclaimed the sparsely populated island a pirate republic. It was ideally situated on the lucrative trade routes, yet close enough to sell goods to the American colonists. And if you ain’t had chance to explore yet, mister, it’s a beautiful place full of sunshine and natural splendor, with crisp, sandy shores and sparkling waters (until you get to the parts besmirched by dirty sailors). The small island protects our harbor entrance and creates two approaches—a dual escape route for outlaw vessels—and both mouths have hidden sandbars that large warships cannot cross. There are numerous caves and coves and inlets away from prying eyes, and the hills behind provide a lookout over many a nautical mile. Providence boasts plenty of food and resources, and the chance to rest in safety while enjoying ill-gotten goods. Not surprisingly, it attracts a society dedicated to shifting stolen loot, whether to smugglers, merchants, passing sailors, or in payment for rum and women. And some still say when a pirate dies he’d rather rest in Providence than go to heaven!
At first the place was little more than a shantytown with a long row of wooden structures forming Bay Street. Then some incongruous businesses popped out of the filth, but the majority of dives are still taverns and brothels where the few working girls ply their wares, and the men come to purchase a smudgy moment of love. The Silk Ship Inn is no exception. As you can see, it consists of one large dirt-floor tavern lined at the far end with the bar, but boasts a rare kitchen and storage room off back, and has one creaky staircase leading upstairs to three bedrooms off a dark, bare landing. Dotted here and there about town, a thriving blacksmith or shipwright services the needs of captains, a coffeehouse caters for those mocking their betters, a dressmaker keeps the well-worn women seeming moderately attractive, and all manner of sideshow entertainments detract the men from recklessly fighting. Back then, though, the sailors camped freely on the beach in a hodgepodge settlement formed of makeshift sail tents and driftwood shacks. They’d spend all their booty enjoying a high time, then immediately sign up for another cruise. And if you asked them their expectations, most replied a short—but merry—life.
Of course, I was used to living down-and-dirty but how on earth Anne was going to cope was quite beyond me. Now, Jim couldn’t be taking his lady wife to no festering brothel (he was still trying to keep up appearances), so he arranged with the local dressmaker to rent a quiet room above the shop. The owner—an effeminate man called Monsieur Bouspeut—was known to the locals as Pierre the Pansy because many a sailor found it amusing that he designed and sewed clothing for a living. But Pierre was a very shrewd businessman who also owned the coffeehouse, hair salon, and Silk Ship Inn—the very place where Captain Hall had delivered us. We didn’t have no money left but once I’d slipped into my feminine attire again the landlady recognized our potential and took Violet to the dress shop to negotiate a deal. Now, it turns out that sultry Monsieur Bouspeut was a sodomite who’d been caught in Paris with his trousers around the wrong ankles. Declaring him a menace to public order, his neighbors were intent on handing him over to the police as a deviant. Fortunately, Pierre was tipped off by another neighbor, who probably just wanted to get rid of him, and therefore he had chance to escape under cover of night. He hurriedly packed his valuables and took a ship to New York, where he hoped to be reunited with his lover. But the lover never came. So when Pierre heard of a paradise where no legal governor reigned, he bribed his passage on a schooner to Nassau and was canny enough to trade and prosper and flourish. The few women on the island liked to work with him because he never made fumbling demands, and the men either enjoyed or tolerated his eccentricities because this was, after all, divine Providence.
So the three of us reached an amicable agreement whereby I would dance each evening to drum up customers, with the option to sleep with the punters or not, and anything me and Violet made was ours to keep. In return for our beds and a steady supply of patrons we’d give Pierre one piece of eight each per week—a very fair price in that particular market—and he then paid his landlady. Of course I could have probably earned more if I’d set myself up as an apothecary, but I chose not to be dealing with chopped-up limbs and pox-ridden cocks, or the chance of being taken at any time without being paid (although Violet did mention my nursing and herbal skills to Pierre, which pleased me because I didn’t want him thinking I was just another common whore). We soon settled into the pattern of working from sunset to midnight or so, sleeping late mornings, and wandering the island on hazy afternoons absorbing our glorious freedom. We were safe enough on Bay Street, but when we decided to venture beyond, we soon learned the value of securing adequate protection.
The first frightful day we tried exploring the beach we’d to turn back for fear of being brutalized by those who could no longer afford us. My skirt got ripped by some grubby salt who’d tried pawing my arse and Violet had been half-eaten by a slobbery jaw that forced itself onto her low-cut bosom. She’d had to whisk the dagger from her boot and tease the lusty face away from her chest at knifepoint. Then we’d to parry through a cluster of limbs, spitting and cursing our retreat back to safety. That night we both charged a pistol in return for our favors, which we thereafter carried everywhere in full view. I’d watched Annie shoot on a number of occasions but didn’t really know how to load myself, so we found a former marine on the dregs of his funds and paid him to teach us both. I didn’t seem to have no knack for hitting any great distance but Violet had a steady hand and an eye determined to stick. And so, before we knew it, we’d crept inside our bizarre new lives.
Mrs. Anne Bonny, however, arrived in a rowdy storm of outrageous attention. Whereas I’d spent my time at sea learning navigation, it appears Annie had striven to shed her genteel manners. She arrived in Nassau as far removed from a Southern lady as you’d imagine—unfettered, uncouth—with a mouth like a bilge pump. As soon as she set foot on land a one-eared sailor grabbed her elbow and yelled, “How much for an hour with you, darling?”
Annie pushed him off while calmly removing the flintlock wedged in his belt and then backed three paces from him. She lifted the pistol in one hand, aimed skillfully, and tugged the trigger. The loud puff of powder cleared slowly to reveal the mortified suitor bent clutching his gory head. She’d blown off the pirate’s
other
ear! This splendid act made the Bonnys toast of the town. Within a day everyone knew of the handsome newcomers, and word spread quickly not to mess with this particular wench. The newlyweds immediately set to work capitalizing on the interest they engendered and while Annie ingratiated herself with Pierre, Jim was scouring the taverns hoping to score a place on the next rich cruise.
other
ear! This splendid act made the Bonnys toast of the town. Within a day everyone knew of the handsome newcomers, and word spread quickly not to mess with this particular wench. The newlyweds immediately set to work capitalizing on the interest they engendered and while Annie ingratiated herself with Pierre, Jim was scouring the taverns hoping to score a place on the next rich cruise.
Now, being among the few women in town, it didn’t take long for everyone to know who Violet and me were either, nor for us to establish our own rules of conduct. We were able to do this because we’d something the men wanted badly that they couldn’t get easily on this island. So we decreed that all business was to be conducted at the Silk Ship Inn (which meant we were safe from pawing hands on the street or beach), payment for services was made up front (so we didn’t get taken by some mangy villain), we had the right to decline anyone we chose not to accommodate (there were plenty of sick, scabby dogs who wouldn’t entice you for a gold doubloon), and there was no sleeping overnight in our rooms. Once this was understood by all we were able to walk around the port with relative ease. Of course there was always plenty of banter when we mingled on the beaches, but it was now lighthearted and amiable because no one in this strange democracy was expecting—or getting—any special favors.
One late morning we wended our way through the shacks and tents to examine the shells on the shoreline. Three young men were splashing about at the waters edge naked and unabashed. They waved when they caught sight of us and one of them hollered, “Ahoy, ladies! Come join us.” Violet apparently recognized them so she turned to see if I might be interested too. I nodded. We tucked up our skirts so they wouldn’t get wet and waded through the frothy surf. The three sailors had just about spent their riches and were making the best of the free entertainment. One of them—Paul Skinner—swam in the cut-glass water like a sleek, oiled fish. I watched in admiration as he dived and sank, then pulled on his arms and cut through the sea with ease.
When he eventually glided back to the sand I gasped, “Can you teach me to do that?”
The young salt slipped a wide smile and asked, “Mean you to swim then, Miss Lola?”
I was taken aback he’d the advantage of knowing my name but then Violet came to my rescue and whispered, “Skinner, I think.”
So I beamed and replied, “Aye, Mr. Skinner. I’ve a mind to learn if you’d be so good as instruct me.”
He stood knee-deep in the water and held out his hands indicating I was to join him offshore. His two friends seemed miffed that he was getting all the attention and they started shouting comments such as, “Stand by, lassie—Sharkey will bite you!”
“Who’s Sharkey?” I asked my new friend.
“’Tis I.” He laughed. “A nickname—”
“But you won’t really bite?” I asked playfully.
“Nay,” he quipped. Then he added, “Though you do, indeed, look tasty. . . .”
I giggled at his flirtation but then asked in a more serious voice, “Do your friends not swim?”
He shook his head. “They claim the sea is too great an adversary so if they chance to fall overboard they intend to surrender peacefully.”
“Not me!” I shuddered. I took his hands and asked, “What must I do?” By now I was waist-deep too and as the weight of my saturated dress was dragging me down I slipped off the outer layers and threw them to Violet for safekeeping. I stood translucent in blouse and bloomers. The other sailors began whistling coarsely and they invited Violet to join their jovial party. She kindly collected my wet clothes from the breakers, spread them on a rock to dry, then settled down to watch me drown in foolishness.
Sharkey placed both hands on my hips and tipped my body so that I was lying faceup flat on top of the water. I balanced firmly on two supporting hands and surrendered to the weightlessness. Above, overstuffed clouds glided swiftly across the skies so I knew a wind was building on the horizon. I closed my eyes and floated with the current. Then the hands abruptly dropped and I sank under a spray of salty water and came up spluttering for air. I scrambled until my feet touched bottom, not very comfortable with the current sucking at my legs. Sharkey was staring at my breasts, and to my horror I saw the material was completely sheer and sticking to my nipples. He pointed out my dilemma to his shipmates, who responded with a cry of whoops. Now I understood why my mentor was so keen to assist me, but I ignored my embarrassment, sank on my knees so my chest dropped below the waterline and asked, “What now?”
This time my teacher took both of my hands and pulled me off balance toward him. I drifted like a log gliding through the mass. “Kick your legs!” he ordered. I thrashed around clumsily, causing a burst of chaos. “Up and down,” he explained. “As if you’re running . . .”
Then he let go of my hands and I immediately sank like a stinging wreck. “I can’t do it,” I wailed.
“Try again,” he commanded. And the exercise was repeated over and over.
I went through a whole battery of emotion—excitement—fear—embarrassment—determination—and finally I managed to keep my head up as I clawed the waves like a frantic dog. Violet cheered encouragement from the shore. And suddenly I realized I’d actually swum on my own for the very first time. Now, I ain’t claiming to be the most elegant body in the water—I just didn’t never want to be the dead one. So I persisted in dunking again and again until I’d mastered the arm strokes and had some sense of when to catch breath. By the end of the afternoon I was cold, disheveled, thoroughly exhausted, and burned by the sun, but when we waded back to the sand I gave Violet the biggest smile and screamed, “I did it!”
“Well you certainly did something, darling,” said one of the sailors, grinning. And they both laughed at the sight of Sharkey’s swollen wood as he followed me out of the sea.
Nearly every day thereafter I went back to the beach to master my lessons. Sharkey was a good instructor, not only because he was endlessly patient but because he could read my struggle and knew when to be sympathetic and when to push me beyond pure laziness or fear. As my confidence improved he had me treading water and floating on my own, both prone and supine. And of course he frequented the Silk Ship each evening sniffing for due reward. Now, don’t get me wrong—I liked the young man—he was kind and funny and decent. But he was developing feelings for me I couldn’t no way return. It was one thing giving him a quickie after I’d finished dancing, but quite another when he wanted to stay and talk and woo me. Time was money and I couldn’t be giving it for free (or swim lessons) but I didn’t want to hurt his pride. So I’d mumble and bluster and feign politeness when I should have just told him to haul up anchor. But whenever I looked into his sad green eyes I was snagged by his unbearable earnestness. Poor sap. He’d got it bad.
Meanwhile, as me and Violet were settling in so were Jim and Annie. Two nights after our arrival we all met again this side of adventure on a sickly somewhat-surreal night I won’t never be forgetting. See, Pierre generally hired whoever was in port to provide musical accompaniment for his tavern, so I’d been merrily dancing to a loud and battered accordion. At the end of my performance, as I collected the cobs my more ardent admirers had tossed, I looked up from the sawdust into Annie’s smoldering eyes. James stood beside her, his arm linked possessively through his wife’s.
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