Even in death, Murrell still posed a threat. What had made the older man become so cold and brutal? What kind of a legacy was fear to leave behind? Not one that Teach wanted for himself. He never wanted people to dread him or the sound of his name so much that the only emotion they felt at his death was relief.
What Teach wanted most in life was to find Anne and build a quiet life together somewhere, away from the rest of the world. Only then would he truly be happy.
Only then would he truly be free.
CHAPTER 5
Anne
The port of Nassau assaulted the senses. The azure sky overhead was a darker mirror of the aquamarine waters below. It was like viewing the world through a green glass, with everything more alive and vibrant than the gray-washed landscape of Bristol. Fish of various sizes swam with the current of the Providence, breaking the crystalline surface as it reached the port.
Anne walked with unsteady legs as she took her first steps on land in more than a month, the dock seeming to roll beneath her feet. The briny scent in the air was familiar and yet somehow different, richer. The breeze bathed the waterfront with a mixture of fragrances from spices and oils, combating the putrid smells of wet canvas and rotting fish.
Countless boats dotted the harbor—longboats and barges from Europe’s northern coasts anchored beside cutters, frigates, and men-of-war from Asia and Africa. Vessels from every corner of the earth swayed with the calming waves. Shouts and cries in different languages rang through the air as figures scrambled across the rigging and decks, loading and unloading merchandise as well as passengers. Warehouses lining the wharves opened their arms to receive cargo.
Anne had never seen so much activity, not even in Bristol. And the heat was stifling. Sweat dripped from every brow, including Anne’s. Her skin was sticky and her dress clung to her as the roasting sun smothered her neck and back like a wool blanket. She could feel the warmth all the way to her feet.
Nassau burst with color. Not only did the inhabitants’ skin tones vary, from deep mahogany to angry red, thanks to the ever present sun, but their clothing boasted bright hues as well. There were men in striped trousers, some in plain sailcloth. Others wore fine red waistcoats and tarpaulin hats, though Anne wondered how they could stand the heat. Women marched across the docks in petticoat skirts and blouses, in brown, yellow, and even russet tones.
Here, at last, were people like her. How often had she longed for this day back in Bristol? Anne wanted to marvel at the sights and sounds, but her fear and anxiety prevented too much admiration. The image of those two ships bearing down on the Deliverance still plagued her mind.
Frustrated that Coyle wasn’t moving any faster, Anne wished she could force the crowds to part. She was determined to find someone who could help the Deliverance, but Coyle insisted on leading them along the crowded docks.
“Do you truly believe your uncle will know someone who can help us?” Anne asked, raising her voice over the commotion. It appeared the people of Nassau only knew how to shout, their voices rising to meet the sun’s rays.
Coyle nodded, perspiration beading on his ruddy complexion. “I do. Uncle Alastair has been here for eleven years. From what he’s told our da, he’s a powerful man, even if he does only run a tavern,” he yelled. “Alastair was one of the first wave of colonists to come back to Nassau after the Spanish destroyed it.”
Anne hoped he was right, as she followed his broad back, pushing through the heaving throng until something crashed into her. Startled, Anne threw out her arms, pushing Cara to the side. Anne landed painfully on her left wrist, her knees slamming into the hard earth below. People crowded quickly around her, threatening to trample her to death with every heavy step. She felt helpless, a mouse trying to survive in a world of hungry lions, and her fear made her angry. Anne shoved back with all her strength, struggling to get to her feet. She hadn’t survived the Drummond household and that awful boat ride to be trampled alive on the dock.
Finally, the weight on her body lessened as a stout man hauled a small figure off her legs. Cara pushed others aside and helped Anne to stand. Rushing toward them, Coyle stepped between the girls and the fighting pair, a circle forming as the crowd watched in anticipation. Some cheered, others hollered, throwing curses into the thick, humid air.
Both men were dirty, their shirts and breeches soiled from weeks’ worth of filth, and their beards were messy and unkempt. The smaller one spoke in a foreign tongue, spitting words that Anne didn’t understand. The larger man circled him, slowly. Teasingly.
Anne had no idea what they were fighting about, but the bigger one was drunk, his movements strained and his speech slurred. His meaty fists hit air instead of the shorter man’s face.
“Let’s go,” Coyle urged, trying to push his way through the multitudes, but it was no use. An unwilling captive to the bloody spectacle, Anne watched in a mixture of horror and fascination as the small man suddenly brandished a blade.
No one intervened. Instead, the crowd chanted and the drunken man roared before charging the smaller man like a bull seeing red. Suddenly, he dropped to his knees, a look of shock lining his face. Anne closed her eyes, but not before she saw the knife sticking out of the man’s chest.
Coyle tried once again to shove his way through the assembly and this time he succeeded. Lightheaded and sick to her stomach, Anne held her arms out, hoping to escape the crush. She knew the people wouldn’t think twice about mercilessly trampling her beneath their feet.
Back in England, she had been aware of pickpockets and other petty criminals. The only victim she’d seen of a brutal crime was her mother, who’d scorned the advances of an earl’s son. He’d beaten her for her refusal and she’d later died from her injuries.
But as they made their way along the crowded docks, Anne couldn’t fully shake the image of the man stabbed with the knife.
Coyle and Cara appeared to be equally stunned. “What are we doing here?” Cara asked, her features pinched.
“It’ll be all right, Cara. You and Anne just stay close.”
“We can’t be close to you all the time, Coyle Flynn,” Cara said, her voice sharp. “We shouldn’t have come.”
“We had no choice,” Coyle snapped.
“Let’s just find your uncle,” Anne said, hoping to avoid another fight. Deep down, she agreed with Cara. She didn’t want to be another body lying in the street.
Although their situations were different, Cara and Coyle were victims of their own circumstances as well. Work was scarce in rural Ireland, and their family had lived on the margins of survival. When their uncle Alastair had offered them both a place to work, they had readily accepted.