Chapter 18: An Unfortunate Collection of Historical Figures
The door swung inward with less effort than its weight suggested.
Before James had entered the building, the chaotic noise of the Drowned Rat hit him. Voices overlapped from every direction, carrying the familiar mix of laughter, arguments, and rum-soaked confidence that filled Nassau’s busiest taverns.
Many men glanced his way, taking a quick measure of him before deciding he wasn’t worth further attention. They returned to their drinks almost immediately.
The ground floor stretched farther back than it first appeared, crowded with tables where captains sat among their senior hands. The room had the particular energy of sailors who considered any day that ended with rum in hand and both feet on dry land a victory worth celebrating.
At the rear stood a staircase leading to a balcony with smaller tables. Those offered enough privacy for business discussions without every man in Nassau listening in.
Beneath his boots, dice struck wood somewhere below the floorboards, followed by a curse from whoever had lost. Near the kitchen, a staircase climbed toward a row of rented rooms. A striking blonde in a dress that left little to the imagination lounged against the banister, waving two already-interested sailors in her direction. Nobody bothered pretending the business upstairs was anything but what it was.
The tavern keeper worked steadily at the taps without looking up. Three women moved through the crowd with efficiency, weaving around chairs and drunks alike. None of them seemed remotely impressed by the captains filling the room.
"Calloway!"
The shout came from a table near the stairs. Leigh Ashworth sat there with a cup that looked as though it had been untouched for some time.
James recognized him immediately. Captain of the Mary. One of the men who kept appearing whenever the line between privateer and pirate became inconveniently difficult to find. Ashworth had sailed with Henry Jennings back when the Caribbean was still arguing whether Nassau’s captains were criminals or merely enthusiastic interpreters of their commissions. History would eventually record that he accepted the King’s Pardon.
History would also record that this hadn’t slowed him down nearly as much as advertised.
"Where’s the rest of yer little fleet, then?"
Christopher Winter called. He didn’t even bother turning around.
"Frenchman take a bite out of ye?"
James recognized him as well. Winter would eventually solve the thorny question of whether a pirate could betray both the Crown and his fellow pirates by simply doing both. In a few years he would accept the King’s Pardon, return to piracy, enter Spanish service, and spend his time raiding English shipping with remarkable enthusiasm. It was the sort of career that suggested loyalty was less a principle and more a temporary inconvenience.
At present, however, he seemed entirely occupied with his drink.
"Or did the convoy just no’ fancy showin’ up?"
Francis Fernando added, sounding pleased with the suggestion.
James knew exactly who he was. Fernando had somehow managed to turn the seizure of a Spanish treasure ship and its cargo into a legal dispute. His defense amounted to claiming the vessel had once been English property and that he was therefore recovering it on the Crown’s behalf. The governor responsible for judging the case also happened to own a share of the profit.
History occasionally made corruption seem far more efficient than piracy.
"Had a disagreement with a French frigate."
James raised a hand as he headed for the bar. "She’s at the bottom of the sea now, but she charged dearly for the trip."
A cheer went up from one table. Another captain shouted that James was still an ugly bastard. Someone farther back demanded to know how much powder it had taken. The laughter that followed had more approval than mockery. A frigate was a frigate, after all. The room soon returned to its own business and let him pass.
James continued toward the bar.
The bar sat beneath a window that had some of the daylight. Much of that light seemed caught in the hair of the woman working behind it, a hue of red too striking to ignore.
James rested an elbow on the bar. "Rum, if ye’d be so kind. I’d hate to stand here starin’ at you without spendin’ any money."
She set the cup on the counter with a sharp knock that rattled the wood.
"Anything else?"
Up close, she was even harder to ignore. Her features were unmistakably Irish, all green eyes, pale skin, and copper-red hair. Combined with a figure that would have distracted saints, it was little wonder the room kept finding reasons to approach the bar.
"Your name’d be a start."
"Anne."
The answer landed as neatly as the cup had. She simply waited, one hand resting on the counter, as though daring him to complain about receiving exactly what he’d asked for.
"Anne what?"
"Anne. Be grateful I answered at all."
James grinned.
That ought to have been the end of it. One thing, however, still bothered him.
"Long way from home, that accent."
"Long way from everywhere, this whole island."
She wiped down a section of counter that didn’t actually need cleaning.
"Followed promises across an ocean. Promises didn’t survive the voyage near as well as I did."
That was clearly the limit of what she intended to share. The moment the words left her mouth, her expression closed off any further discussion.
Even so, her eyes lingered on him a heartbeat longer than the conversation required.
Red hair. Irish accent. A woman who had crossed an ocean chasing promises that had failed her.
James had built theories from less evidence than that.
The conclusion in his mind fit the pieces a little too neatly, and it carried the uncomfortable warmth of knowing something he had no business knowing.
If he had possessed a coin worth betting, he would have wagered it on Anne Bonny.
"Best not keep whoever’s waiting upstairs lookin’ that pleased with yourself."
Anne jerked her chin toward the balcony before he could decide whether the theory was worth the risk.
"Aye, business."
James finished the rum and set the cup aside. "Duty calls, and she’s a less forgivin’ creature than you."
She didn’t answer.
James decided to count that as a victory. It had served him well enough the last time a woman declined to continue an argument.
He crossed the room and climbed the stairs two at a time.
On the balcony he found Hornigold seated at a table with a cup of something dark in front of him. Grey threaded through his hair at the temples, and his dark sea coat showed the wear of long service without losing its shape. He looked less like a pirate than a prosperous shipmaster, which James suspected was part of the reason men underestimated him.
"Calloway."
Hornigold remained seated, merely nodding toward the chair across from him.
"Hornigold."
James dropped into the seat without waiting for further invitation. Experience had taught him that waiting rarely earned him anything from this man.
"Ye’re lookin’ well, for a man runnin’ Nassau on rum and reputation."
"And you look like a man who walked into somebody’s fist on the way here."
Hornigold’s gaze moved over the split knuckles, the worn coat, and then back to James’s face.
He offered no comment on either.
"Tell me about the convoy."
James gave him the short version.
In a room full of men whose hearing exceeded their manners, the short version was the sensible option.
The convoy had never appeared. A French frigate had.
The frigate had been hunting the waters for that very reason.
The two sloops were gone. The Bloody Rose survived, though barely. Rope, stubbornness, and luck seemed to be holding her together. There were no prizes in her hold.
The frigate, at least, would trouble no one ever again.
James presented that as the sole piece of good news in the entire account.
Hornigold neither interrupted nor reacted.
When James finished, he let the silence stretch.
James suspected the pause was intentional, which only made it more irritating.
"You’ve always had a gift for finding the kind of trouble nobody invited."
"It’s a curse, really."
James leaned back in his chair. "I’ve tried to stop bein’ charmin’. Just can’t seem to manage it."
Something that might have become a smile touched Hornigold’s eyes, then vanished before it could fully form.
He took an unhurried drink.
