There wasn't a thing Edward didn't like about the place.
He'd taken it mostly as is, and paid extra to be able to do so - the old gentleman and his wife had agreed to leave him the farmhouse dining table, with the simple wrought iron chandelier and candles affixed to the ceiling above it, the dining chairs, the china cupboard, the bedstead and a dresser, at least for his things, in the bedroom, some woven rugs and drapes. They would be going to stay with one of their daughters and her family for a while; their children's lives having taken a different path. And with the required signatures on the bill of sale and title, and a handshake, the transaction had been completed. Edward Teach. It was freeing. Nobody had ever been that familiar with his real name, and nobody had even heard of him here. He smiled in satisfaction. This is who he is.
He'd hated the name once; it was his father's name. And after that incident with his father, his first instinct was to run, so he'd jumped aboard the first ship that would have him, to get away. He thought he'd done something terrible, but it was only to protect his mother. He could take it, whenever his father had lashed out at him, so long as he didn't hurt her, until one day everything had all just boiled over and he'd lashed back. No longer that stoic boy cowering alone in a copper tub and licking his wounds, he found that he didn't have to be his father's son, that he was his own man. He sometimes wondered at the memory that was becoming less clear now, the details vague; if he'd really done it, that maybe he hadn't succeeded, and his father had survived and was still out there somewhere.
He had liked to keep that side of himself hidden. It was not just that he hated the name, but it was also for self-preservation and a little bit of what he liked to call fuckery, for when he invariably would be underestimated, he would have the advantage. Blackbeard was rarely if ever underestimated, and he'd stolen a few pages out of Machiavelli's Il Principe. Like he did when he'd signed his name with an "X" when he and Stede had been taken into custody by the Royal Navy. For the pardon also, this mark had been witnessed. He might not be as quite as well-read as Stede was, but yes, he could read and write. And some in Spanish and Portuguese too. His real name and signature were nowhere else on record, but buying the house for them was something different; important. No one, no mistake or error or fraud, would be the cause of their losing possession of it. Nor would he deceive a well-meaning couple who acted in good faith and had been kind to him.
At fourteen years old, he'd started out as the ship's cabin boy, assigned the lowliest of tasks; that was how it worked on board a ship. For Captain Will on the English merchant ship Bonaventure in 1695; he would never forget it. A legitimate, working merchant vessel, and she was armed. He learned to scale the rigging and ratlines better than anyone. The crew would good-naturedly kid him, saying that they thought his unruly curly hair looked permanently windblown because of it. He didn't mind. No one had harmed him though, or used him to warm a sailor's bed, like some of the stories he'd heard, although the work was hard. But it was worth it, and not only to get away from the memory of his father and his unpredictable rages. It had proved to be the education of his life.
On some quiet nights, when his work was done, he'd read, or study. He'd sometimes look up or wake to hear the hushed sounds of some of the other sailors and their lovers late in the night. But it was not all dallying and whoring and drunkenness, stealing lovers aboard ship, although when he grew to be a man he'd done that too. The old cook, Flynn, would sit in the galley some nights, at the long wooden table when it had all been cleared and cleaned, reading by lamplight, or going over the lists and schedules for the next day or week or month, and when he spied the young Edward hovering by the doorway on several occasions in natural curiosity, at last looked up at him from above the awkward-looking spectacles perched upon his nose and said:
"What d'ye want, boy, don't just stand there gawping."
Edward had hesitated at first. The light from the galley seemed to glow so brightly in the ship at night. He hadn't realized that he'd been staring, or that he'd been noticed. He'd simply been curious.
"I . . . I wasn't goin' to steal anythin', I swear it!" he stammered.
"Don' ye worry boy, I'll not bite ye. D'ye want to learn or not? Then shut yer gob and come in and sit down."
Edward had learned his numbers and letters on a piece of old slate tile to write on with a stub of dusty white chalk, and how to put them together, there in the galley of the ship, under old Flynn's tutelage. And how the entire ship was run, too. First into words, and then putting the words into sentences. His mother had taught him a little, but her knowledge of course was limited; and he learned some at church, until he'd stopped going. He'd learned to read the signs coming into port, or a newspaper or pamphlets and leaflets being hawked on the docks outside the publick houses and shops and theatres, in the loud, exciting cacophony of the busy seaports, where ships would dock from all over the world. Dutch from the Zuiderzee and Amsterdam, Spain and Portugal, Italy, the Levant and the Far East. And a couple of years on, it was where he had gotten the first of his tattoos, a five-pointed nautical star, on the back of his right hand.
He'd shout into the wind where no one could hear him. He learned the Greek and Latin roots of many words, and he and the old cook would sometimes bring books back to the ship from the markets, either exchanged for, or for a few farthings or ha'pennies, whilst on errands for provisioning the ship, where Edward also learned about money. He learned to be wary and clever. Sometimes he'd get a sweet, or a biscuit or sugared cake for his efforts. He'd help with the keeping of the kitchen and other logbooks, writing the entries with a feathered quill pen. And lest anyone think it had been a perfect idyll, it is also where he learned to fight, both with the blade and with his fists, and to avoid the lash.
He would stand watch on rain-drenched decks in oilskins, port and starboard, bow or stern, when storms would toss the ship and the wind and stirred-up waves would buffet her, at all ship's bell hours and in all kinds of weather, fair or foul, when it was his turn at sea watch. He'd scramble up the rigging to the crow's nest to sight land and hazards; watch for birds and all of the signs. He'd scrubbed the decks. He learned how to trim and adjust the sails for the wind conditions; how to tie the all-important rope marine knots, done so often that they became second nature to him. Read the sky, the waves.
He learned because he did not like to be at a disadvantage. He even learned to cook some, and deliver to the Captain his tea, with fine china and silver that rattled precariously as he tried to balance it all on the tray as he carried it, stepping carefully to the ever-ruling motion of the ship.
"And don't drop it, lad, or I'll crown ye!" Flynn warned him, but despite all his salt and gruffness, Flynn was a decent man. Ed knew he was more bark than bite, most of the time anyway. She, the ship, had become like a home to him, and her crew like a family. Flynn had some sort of physical disability, maybe from a past injury; when he walked it was with a slight shuffle, but his mind was certainly as sharp as a thorn.
Eventually, he would join the crew of the armed pirate sloop Ranger, commanded by Captain Benjamin Hornigold, appointed his second-in-command, and then the captain of the Ranger himself, becoming Blackbeard. And it was there he had met Izzy.
Little had anyone realized that the lad who had demonstrated such a quick wit and aptitude would have grown up to become one of the most fearsome pirates who ever lived.
And before he left for South America to put it all behind him, he went to see his mother again, to say goodbye.
It had been years, and yet she still seemed the same to him, lived at the same run down little house on the same run down little street in Bristol. That's where he'd looked first. As luck would have it, he saw her just as she was returning to the house, probably from the market, as she had shopping bags with her. He hadn't made himself known then, had just wanted to see the old place, see if she still lived there. He may have even lost a little nerve. But the next time, he'd come for a proper visit and brought with him a gift for her, a shawl, something fine, something she deserved, and he wrapped the silk around her shoulders.
As if she couldn't believe her eyes; she stood there speechless for a moment in the doorway, just taking in the sight of him, in his dashing and fine coat. Then, Edward? Dear Lord, it must be a ghost! she'd exclaimed, and her hand flew to her mouth. He'd chuckled.
"Mum," he'd said. For a moment or two, he was just a boy again.
There hadn't been a day that had gone by where he didn't think of her, wonder about her, if she was still well. She had felt the same about him.
"Well come in then!" she said. She laughed now too. He stepped inside; the small rooms were just the same.
She was overjoyed to see him, her eyes filled with tears, and she took him into her arms; he kissed her cheek. He'd put her heart at ease, to know he was alive and well. It was a relief for him too, to settle things. She saw that he had some snow in his hair now, she'd said, as she touched the silvery strands, and that she knew him by his eyes, that he still had the same bright dark eyes that seemed to dance with merriment and playful, innocent mischief when he was a child, when he was happy, and she told him that she had prayed to the Holy Mother, prayed and prayed that he would be kept safe, all these years.
"Are you happy, Edward?" she'd asked him over a cup of tea, smiling, reaching for his hand across the kitchen table and covering it with her own, and he'd told her yes. It seemed to be all she needed to know, about his starting his new life. He wished that she had been able to meet Stede.
The question of what had become of his father hung in the air between them, unspoken.
"Keep this for me," he whispered, his gaze holding hers, as he drew from inside his fine coat a well-worn leather drawstring coin purse, containing enough gold sovereigns and guineas, silver crowns and pound sterling coins so that she would be comfortable in her later years. His mother had never remarried. There were silver Spanish dollars, or pieces of eight, and gold doubloons, and gold Portuguese dobra de oito escudos as well. He knew that she would have been too proud to accept it otherwise. And there was plenty more where that came from. He set it down on the table heavily and pushed it towards her. She looked across at him in surprise, ready to politely refuse. She did not ask, but he knew that she must have wondered how he had come into such money.
"Edward . . ."
"No . . . please Mother . . . spend it as you need to, I insist."
He would keep in touch as he could.
As he looked round, he again admired the beautiful blue-and-white azulejos tiles that decorated the wood-fired kitchen. The lovely couple had even left him a couple of dusty bottles of homemade wine from down in the cellar; some Madeira. He and Stede might at some point be able to hire a small household staff; a cook and housekeeper. Until then, he didn't mind doing the cooking.
He began to unpack a few of his belongings, would make himself a cup of tea before he retired for the night.
In the sitting room, there is a windowed alcove; the windows were open tonight, and the breezes rustled the leaves and palm fronds of the trees outside. On some warm nights, sitting outside in the overgrown garden in one of the white painted, cast-iron chairs and quietly listening, he would hear the call of howler monkeys, or the rumble of a jaguar's roar from somewhere far off. It would be the Southern Hemisphere summer. They would see the end of the season of the blue jacarandás in flower too, the couple had told him when they had shown him the property. Stede would like that.
He had added the books that he'd taken of Stede's to the bookshelves here in this alcove; the books that he had wanted to destroy when he'd been so angry at him, along with some others he had. Some were of his treasured rare and first printings book collection. But he'd thought better of it; it was a sacrilege to destroy a book, to his mind, especially these rare and old ones. He wondered what Stede would say when he saw them, and smiled to himself.
He saw that the shovel still stood against the back of the house; it was here in the back garden that he had buried most of his gold and riches. The grass and vegetation were already beginning to come back at the spot. He must remember to put it away in the cellar. He and Izzy had split some of the hoard between them, and Izzy got the share that was due him.
All of the windows had shutters, in case of tropical rainstorms and heat; but generally, the weather would be mild, and there had never been a hurricane. It gave the room a warm and cosy feeling. This was the part of the house that Edward thought Stede would especially like, a place for some of his books and for reading.
When your spouse arrives, we hope you both will be very happy here. Muitas felicidades!, they had told him, wishing much happiness. It was an assumption that he did not correct, and he thanked them kindly.
"Muito obrigado." He shook their hands again.
"We're going to start off with a clean slate!" Stede had exclaimed, saying how he wanted to pare down a lot of his possessions when he started his life afresh. Ed smiled to himself, thinking of just how much Stede would probably still bring - but he thought that it would all fit in very well. He'd planned it all with that in mind.
It was a beautiful destination anyway, but it had to be here, Ed had reasoned, even if it was not without risks of its own. But the Caribbean and the North American coast were turning into a hotbed, both of piracy and the stepping up of the pursuit and apprehension of them by the Royal Navy. The English would be all over them. Ed had argued in South Amerca's favour. Even though they'd been given royal pardons with the offer of a commission for a stint as privateers for the Crown.
The Barbary Corsairs ruled the Mediterranean and North African coast from the Strait of Gibraltar. Macau was a possibility, and had a European trading presence, but China was very far away Steve thought, and they would be at a disadvantage not knowing anything of the languages or culture.
He'd considered every detail. Ed did not want for them to end their days dancing at the end of a rope. Calico Jack had been caught and hanged in Port Royal only last year. Ed was tired of it all, and again asked Stede to come with him. Izzy could make up his own mind. Stede worried if Izzy could be trusted. And there was still that business with Admiral Badminton for Stede to be concerned about. And so they'd agreed. South America it would be.
The pardon would remain, whatever they chose, and they had accepted the King's Pardon and its terms. They would not be turning in their compatriots; not only would it be dishonourable, but it could also be deadly.
Ed still couldn't understand whatever it was that had drawn Stede into this wretched business, but he blessed his lucky stars for it all the same. Maybe he was beginning to understand, just a little.
Edward was looking forward to their first night in the house. He'd have to think about what to prepare for dinner for them, and choose a wine.
Things hadn't gone as well the first time they'd planned to go away together. Edward had waited and waited, taking nothing more with him than would fit into a sailor's ditty bag; waited in the pale early morning light until the sun had just come up over the horizon, and Stede had never showed. In truth, Edward hadn't really expected him to; and it had only confirmed it for him. But he hadn't known the entire story, then.
Stede had tried to explain and apologized over and over; and Ed did understand that it was difficult, taking care of things back home, coming to such a momentous decision, but couldn't he have left him a word, at least? Stede had smoothed his ruffled feathers.
"Forgive me?" he asked.
"Oh will you shut up," Ed had said, smiling, and took him into his arms and kissed him.
But this time, Ed thought to himself, what was done was done. And if Stede didn't show, Ed knew he would go ahead without him.
How had he gotten here? Izzy. He owed Izzy a debt of gratitude. Israel Hands had been a devoted and loyal friend to him over many years, a fine pirate in his own right, and Edward thought he should receive recognition for it. And maybe more, once, for Izzy. Edward had been terribly flattered, but it was not to be. Izzy loved Blackbeard; Stede loves Ed.
He had noticed that his first mate was becoming increasingly disgruntled and restless. Perhaps it was time for him to take on the legacy of Blackbeard, captain his own ship? Izzy had brought him here, and Ed in exchange had turned over the ship to him. It seemed fair. All of his private papers he'd left in Stede's care, until he had gotten them settled in their new home. He looked forward to telling Stede all about it, if and when he arrived. And if he doesn't, it'll give him a story to tell his grandchildren, Ed thought, with wry smile.
He rode into the town again, and at the crest of a hill he slowed his horse. He could see the port from here, the bay. There, a ship on the horizon. He watched intently, then taking a spyglass from inside his coat, squinting through it and trying to identify the ship's sails and flags.
By God and Bleeding Hell, he'd done it! It was the Revenge's sail rig, at any rate. He knew it in his mind, he felt it in his heart. The sight always left him in awe, had done many times, as he watched the beautiful ships coming in under full sail with colours set; first as boy growing up along the Bristol docks, and then later bringing a ship in himself as a man, but he never grew tired of it. And this time, she was carrying Stede back to him.
Edward's heart leapt; and closing the spyglass, he quickly returned it to his coat pocket and gently urged his horse forward.
When Stede began to rouse from the delirium of his fever, he thought he'd seen an apparition at the foot of his bed. Sitting in a chair there was Blackbeard, in all of his beautiful, fearsome glory, just as he'd seen him in the image in his books - a wraith of smoke weaving round his head and gleaming eyes, all in black.
But it had been no spectral presence. He had not expected that the great Blackbeard would have taken a washrag wrung from a basin of cool water to his forehead and over his chest to help bring down his fever, or change the dressings of his wound after his swordfight when the Spanish Navy man-o'-war attacked his ship, and care for him until he was well enough again.
"Awright, my lover," he had said, leaning back in the chair and putting his booted feet up onto the edge of the elegantly carved footboard of Stede's bed, setting aside his pipe for the moment. It was one of those West Country phrases of his that had so charmed Stede when he first heard it, meaning 'Hello', or 'Good Morning', or now 'You're Awake!", and that always made him a little light-headed with happiness whenever he heard them.
He had suffered an infection, and when his fever had broken and he opened his eyes, Edward had taken his hand in his.
Stede reflected on all of this with great anticipation as the ship approached the island of São Vicente and her harbour, that he knew this side of the man, and loved him. Was loved by him. He thought that Mary may have been wrong; sometimes love was not as easy as breathing, although it was as necessary.
"Meet her!" he called to Mr. Buttons at the helm. "And handsomely!"
"Aye, Captain! She be steady now, Sir."
