Chapter Four
Teach stomped across the deck, growling at anyone who came near him.
Damn the woman! Though cloaked in pious garb, she had a lush female form – temptation sent from the Devil himself. Thank the Lord for her sharp tongue. It would curb the lustful cravings of any man.
He swore to put her off his ship at the first opportunity. He’d check his charts and see about changing his course… Damnation again! All the charts were locked away in his cabin.
“I’ll not go back there now,” he muttered aloud. “Maybe later, when food has been prepared. I’ll take her something to eat. While I’m there, I’ll plan our route. Hispaniola? Kingston? It should be some place where she can be among her own kind. There aren’t many nuns in the West Indies,” he announced to the confused deckhand passing by. “Perhaps she’ll have an idea of which port would be safest.”
***
“Sister Bertilde, it’s Captain Teach. I’ve brought you your supper.”
Mercy hurried to the door, kicking the satchel into a corner of the room on her way. Lifting the iron latch on her side, she pulled the door open.
Captain Teach strode into the room, his arms laden with pots and bowls and tankards. He dumped everything unceremoniously onto the table in the center of the room.
“Come, Sister. Cook prepared a feast to celebrate our survival. There’s stew from a boar I slaughtered just before we sailed. We’ll not have the luxury of dining on fresh game again till we make the next port.”
Opening one of the cupboards on the wall, he pulled out two pewter dishes and a pair of spoons and added them to the array spread out on the table. Along with the steaming metal pot giving off a mouth-watering aroma, he’d brought a loaf of bread, a fist-sized hunk of goat cheese, and a pair of tankards filled to the brim with something that smelled suspiciously like St. Thomas’s famous dark island rum. It was clear he planned to join her for the meal.
Teach pulled out a chair and gestured for her to take her place at the table. Ladling a sizeable portion of stew onto one of the pewter dishes, he set it before her then tore off a hunk of bread and laid it next to her plate.
Mercy couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. Consumed with grief over her dying parents and worry about the approaching storm, she was certain no food had touched her lips yesterday and possibly not the day before either. Overwhelmed by the tempting sights and smells before her, Mercy forgot every rule of proper dining she’d ever learned. Hungrily, she bit into the crusty loaf, still warm from the hearth.
The captain raised an eyebrow. “Sister, do you break bread without giving thanks to your Lord first?”
Mercy cursed inwardly. Damn, the man was sharp. She’d have to mind every word and gesture to maintain her façade of holiness. It would be especially difficult since her exposure to women who had chosen the religious life was limited to a handful of occasions back in England when Mama dragged her to Holy Mass in one of the drafty stone cathedrals. She had little knowledge of what nuns did or how they behaved when they weren’t in church. Her disguise relied on being in the company of those who had even less experience with occupants of a convent.
“I did not wish to inconvenience your dining with the numerous obligations I bear due to my religious beliefs, monsieur,” she replied haughtily. “I trust Le Bon Dieu will forgive my transgression and choose instead to bless my attempt to put you at ease that you may enjoy your meal.”
“Howthoughtfulof you, Sister.” James sat down and helped himself to a portion of stew that made hers look puny. “So, tell me, how did you find life on a tropical island?”
She eyed him suspiciously, but the question seemed innocent enough. “It was very pleasant,” she replied. “The climate is so agreeable, the sun so warm.”
“Pardon me if I seem impertinent, but do you not feel discomfort, dressed as you are in those dark woolen robes?”
Mercy realized she would be at a disadvantage if she allowed the captain to choose their topics of conversation. She’d answered as herself, forgetting that, dressed as Sister Bertilde, a nun would find the heat of the tropical sun punishing.
“After the chill stone walls of our English convent, I am thankful for the warmth of the tropics. And we are rarely allowed to wander about out of doors, even here,” she improvised. Since most of the men she’d met enjoyed talking about themselves more than any other subject, she turned the conversation to a safer topic.
“Tell me, Capitaine, is it true what they say? You are descended from the pirate Edward Teach?”
He gave her a rueful grin. “Yes, I admit to it. But I don’t claim to have inherited much from the old rascal except his surname. There are plenty of his offspring around. He sired thirteen children in all. My father was his youngest, the only child of wife number fourteen, a young woman barely in her teens, daughter of the colonial governor from the town of Bath in the Carolinas. He had no childhood memories of his infamous parent to convey. The old man died shortly after my father was born. What I know I’ve learned from my grandmother and a handful of his crewmen who were still alive when I was growing up in the Colonies.”
With a little encouragement, Teach continued the saga of his fearful ancestor. “Blackbeard died in a battle with the Royal Navy off Cape Hatteras back in 1718. He was beheaded by the naval commander. Legend has it his headless body was thrown into the sea and swam three times around the ship before it finally sank out of sight.”
James paused and took a healthy swig from his tankard. “From what I’ve heard, my grandfather would have loved that tale. He cultivated a terrifying image, relying more on fear than force to accomplish his notorious deeds. When the crew of another vessel caught sight of his banner – the black flag with a horned skeleton bearing a tankard of rum in one hand and a spear driven into a bright red heart in the other – they abandoned all thought of defending themselves or their cargo. Instead, they’d abandon ship or surrender without a shot ever being fired. There’s never been an account of Teach harming or murdering his prisoners.”
Mercy and the captain polished off the last crumbs of the huge meal as he went on with the narrative. “Toward the end of his life, Grandfather attempted to retire from his criminal pursuits, settling in the Carolinas with his last bride, my grandmother. He was a favorite of the governor, hosting lavish entertainments for the townsfolk. ’Twas said he had a compelling personality. As for the truth of that, not only did the governor give him his own daughter’s hand in marriage, he also provided a full pardon for Teach, welcoming him, and, presumably, his vast treasures, to the colony. Strange, is it not, that the larger a man’s purse, the more pleasing his personality is often found to be?”
He tipped the tankard up for one last swallow then rose from the table.
“Sister Bertilde, I’ve seldom had a dining companion who allowed me to monopolize the conversation so thoroughly. When we next share supper, I must hear a story from you. I know nothing of how you came to the religious life or what adventures you yourself had coming to the Indies.”
When she began to protest, he smiled, but the tone of his reply was firm.
“Think of it as the price you’ll pay for your meal.”