***
I met Jack during a tornado that ripped through Nassau in June of 1719 when most ne’er-do-wells were taking shelter in Sal’s Tavern, a popular alehouse and brothel. A regular there, I was never short of a drink, nor of company.
“Well, aren’t you a long drink on a hot day?” were Jack’s first words to me. He was dressed in a colourful calico patchwork dress coat and a tricorn hat. His handsome face was deep brown and furrowed from years on the open sea.
“A hot day?” I said, looking out to the storm. “You must be liquored already mister…the devil’s pissing on Nassau, ain’t he?”
He flashed a grin at me. At least two of his teeth were pure gold. “It’s always sunny in Sal’s, darlin’.”
The large group of men assembled around him banged their tankards on the tables and chanted: “Sal’s! Sal’s! Sal’s!”.
I leant against the bar and surveyed him, my interest piqued, owing to his charm and the clear loyalty of his companions.
“Do people always agree with you, Mister…?”
“Rackham, Captain Jack Rackham. Some call me Calico Jack,” he replied, his eyes glinting with pure amusement. “And everyone tends to agree but you, I reckon. What is your name, lass?”
“Anne.”
“Just Anne?”
“Well, let’s see. I came out of my mother as Anne Elizabeth Mary Cormac, if you require all of my particulars, but nowadays I go by Anne Bonny, on account of my husband.”
Jack looked around the tavern, bemused. “And where is this…husband?”
“My husband is attached to me in law alone, Mister Rackham. He certainly has no say over my whereabouts.” I looked him up and down. “And no man ever shall.”
He let out a loud, hearty guffaw. “Well, well, you are a Bonny-Anne indeed. And ooh-ee, a lit barrel of gunpowder to boot.” He reached into his top pocket and pulled out a single gold doubloon. I had never seen one before. “Care for a drink, Bonny-Anne?”
“Since you asked, Mister Rackham,” I said, taking a seat on the nearest chair and swinging both feet up on to a table, crossed at the ankles. “As it happens, I am feelin’ mighty parched.”
I spent every day with Jack over the next fortnight, drinking and quarrelling our way around Nassau Port. Together we rode out the storm from both the tornado and my husband, from whom we had to hide during his almost daily hunts to find me – a futile effort to tow me back into line.
Jack and I became fast friends, then convenient lovers. We fought like cat and dog, but I confess I liked him more than any man before, or since. When the sun came out, I boarded a stolen sixty-foot sloop named William with Jack and his crew and never looked back.
3
I had been at sea on the William for two months and five days when I first set eyes on Mary Read. At first, I looked on her as a man – she went by the name of Mark at the time – but still, her effect on me was immediate.
We had just taken a sloop off Tortuga island, a small single-masted vessel. Our usual tactic on the open sea had prevailed: using my good self as a distraction. It was my idea of course. Women were rarely seen at sea – having a female aboard was widely considered to be bad luck – and I relished taking centre stage, inventing all sorts of shenanigans to confuse and mystify our enemy. With such an unusual spectacle surprising our opponents, we often found smaller ships easy to overcome.
Over the weeks I had gone from standing completely naked with a skull in one hand and a cutlass in the other; to swinging from the rigging and hollering like I belonged in an madhouse; to dancing a merry jig around the foresail in a flowing, bloodstained white robe. These theatrical displays were the only times I wore women’s garments aboard the William. Dresses were ridiculous and completely impractical, and I did not need to remind the crew any more than necessary of my underlying femininity. Being a woman in a man’s world is always problematic.
One of my most memorable and elaborate diversions was when I lashed a headless dressmaker’s dummy to the bow, its torso splashed liberally with pig’s blood. As we approached a merchant ship, I stood over the dummy – doused in blood myself, for good effect – wielding a huge beheading axe and screaming like a banshee. The other ship’s crew were so frightened they gave up without so much as an ahoy – some of them even jumped overboard, trying to make a swim for it before we had barely come close. Truth be told, most of the crew of the William had been spooked too. Some still kept their distance from me wherever possible. I suppose an unpredictable woman is a fearsome prospect for many a man.
This time, however, I decided to keep things simple. I positioned myself in the crow’s nest as we came up alongside the sloop, dressed in a fine red velvet robe, with my bodice ripped wide open to reveal my bare breasts.
On this occasion, all but one of the sloop’s crew surrendered without a fuss. One man, however, burst from a cabin with his sword and pistol drawn, ready to fight single-handed. He managed to cross the gangway onto the William, kill two of our men and wound three others before I swung down on the rigging line and landed soundly in front of him.
“Now, you wouldn’t hurt a lady, would you, mister?” I said, with my hands cupping my breasts.
“There’s nary a lady I know who dresses like that,” he replied, breathless from his endeavours. His clear blue eyes were assured, strong, with a
