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Black Beard alerted his men to ready their grappling irons and weapons. He also produced an invention of his own. Bottles filled with powder, shot, and pieces of iron and lead, ignited by fuses worked into the center. Later generations would call them hand grenades. He used them to create havoc and pandemonium.
The explosives landed on Maynard’s sloop and enveloped the deck in dense smoke. But since most of the men were below, they had little effect. Seeing so few hands on board, Black Beard shouted, “They are all knocked on the head but three or four. Board her and cut them to pieces.”
The ships touched. Grappling irons clanked across the bulwarks.
Black Beard was the first to board.
Ten of his men followed.
Shots were fired at anything that moved.
Maynard timed his response with precision, waiting until nearly all of his opponent’s men were aboard, then allowing his forces to burst from the hold.
Confusion reigned.
The surprise worked.
Black Beard immediately grasped the problem and rallied his men. Each fight became hand-to-hand. Blood slicked the deck. Maynard fought his quarry directly and leveled a pistol. Black Beard did the same. The pirate missed, but the lieutenant found his mark.
The bullet, though, did not stop the renegade.
Both men engaged the other with cutlasses.
A powerful blow snapped Maynard’s blade. He hurled the hilt and stepped back to cock another pistol. Black Beard advanced for a finishing blow, but at the moment he swung his blade aloft another seaman slashed his throat.
Blood spurted from the neck.
The Brits, who’d steered clear of him, sensed his vulnerability and pounced.
Edward Teach died a violent death.
Five pistol wounds. Twenty cuts to his body.
Maynard ordered the head removed and suspended from the bowsprit of his sloop. The rest of the corpse was thrown in the sea. Legend holds that the headless body defiantly swam around the ship several times before it sank.
Malone stopped reading.
He’d tried to take his mind off the situation by surfing the Internet, reading about pirates, a subject he’d always found fascinating, and the fate of Black Beard had caught his attention.
The pirate’s skull dangled from a pole on the west side of the Hampton River in Virginia for several years. That spot today is still known as Blackbeard’s Point. Someone eventually fashioned it into the base of a punch bowl, which was used for drinking at a Williamsburg tavern. Eventually it was enlarged with silver plate, but disappeared over time. He wondered if the Commonwealth had anything to do with that. After all, he assumed it was no coincidence that Hale had named his own sloop Adventure.
He checked his watch. Less than an hour till they landed.
He’d made a mistake reading about pirates. It only made him more anxious. For all of the romanticism associated with them, they were cruel and vicious. Human life meant little to them. Theirs was an existence based on profit and survival, and he had no reason to assume that the modern version was any different. These were desperate men, faced with a desperate situation. Their only goal was success, and who they hurt in the process meant nothing.
He felt a little like Robert Maynard on his way to confront Black Beard.
A lot had been at stake then, and was now.
“What have you done?” he whispered, thinking of Cassiopeia.
KNOX SHIFTED HIS POSITION, STAYING ONE LEVEL ABOVE-GROUND, keeping close to the outer wall, using the rubble for cover. Gaping holes stretched everywhere in the outer curtain, exposing a moonlit bay. A stiff breeze chapped his lips, but at least it flushed most of the bird pall away. He’d listened to the exchange between Carbonell and Wyatt and was trying to find a vantage point from which he could more closely observe their confrontation. Perhaps, if he was lucky, he could take them both out?
“Knox.”
He stopped. Wyatt was calling to him.
“I know where those two pages are hidden.”
A message. Loud and clear. If you’re thinking about killing me, think again.
“Be smart,” Wyatt yelled.
He realized what that meant.
We have a common enemy. Let’s deal with that. Why do you think I allowed you to have a gun?
Okay. He’d go along with that.
For now.
HALE STEPPED TOWARD THE CELL THAT HELD HIS THREE FEMALE prisoners. Kaiser’s hair lay matted to her head, her clothes soaked, but there was still something about her-a beauty that came from age and experience-that he would miss.
Along with her special garments.
“So you came to learn what you could? To find Ms. Nelle?”
“I came to try and right my own screwup.”
“Admirable. But quite stupid.”
He listened outside and was pleased to hear the rain and wind abating. Finally. Perhaps the worst of the storm had gone. His immediate problem, though, was more pressing.
He faced the woman he did not know.
Slim, toned, with dark hair and swarthy skin. Quite a beauty. Gutsy, too. She reminded him of Andrea Carbonell, which wasn’t a good thing.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Cassiopeia Vitt.”
“You were to be their rescuer?”
“One of many.”
He caught her point.
“It’s over,” Stephanie Nelle said to him. “You’re done.”
“Is that what you think?”
He reached into his
pocket and removed the cellphone that his men had found on Vitt. Interesting device. It contained no phone log, contacts, or saved numbers. Apparently its only use was to send and receive one call at a time. He assumed it was something the intelligence community utilized.
Which made Vitt part of the enemy.
He’d already surmised that the other men had been sent to draw his attention while she made the extraction.
And the plan had almost worked.
“Do you work for NIA, too?” he asked her.
“I work for me.”
He gauged the response and decided that his initial assessment was correct. This woman would tell him nothing without prodding.
“You just saw what I do when someone refuses my questions.”
“I answered your question,” Vitt said.
“But I have another one. A much more important one.” He displayed the phone. “Who do you report to?”
Vitt did not reply.
He said, “I know Andrea Carbonell is waiting for you to report in. I want you to tell her that Stephanie Nelle isn’t here. That you failed.”
“There’s nothing you can do to me that would make me do that.”
He realized that was true. He’d already sized up Cassiopeia Vitt and decided she would play the odds. If he was right, and there were others monitoring her progress, when she failed to report, they would act. All she had to do was hold out until enough time passed.
“I don’t plan to do anything to you,” he made clear.
He pointed at Kaiser.
“I intend to do it to her.”
SEVENTY-EIGHT
NOVA SCOTIA
WYATT HOPED KNOX HEEDED HIS WARNING. HE REQUIRED A few uninterrupted minutes with Carbonell. Then he and Knox could play between themselves. And play they would, since he doubted Knox was simply going to walk away once he realized the odds had now evened. Had Knox found the two bodies? Probably. But even if he hadn’t, there was no reason for him to assume anyone else remained in the fort besides the three of them.
