I flitted back. I’ve never been one for fancy foot-work, but compared to Blaney I was nimble. Plus I had the advantage. First blood to me and with the crowd on my side. David versus Goliath.

“Come on, you fat bastard,” I taunted him. “Come on, this is what you wanted to do the minute I came aboard the ship. Let’s see what you got, Blaney.”

The crew had heard me and shouted their approval, perhaps for my sheer gumption. From the corner of my eye I saw Thatch throw back his head and laugh, with his hand at his belly. To save face, Blaney had to act. You have to give it to him. He acted.

Friday had told me that Blaney was skilled with his blade and was an essential member of the Emperor’s boarding party. He hadn’t mentioned that Blaney was also good with his fist and I, for some reason, never assumed he had much in the way of boxing skills. But one bit of nautical wisdom I had learnt was “never assume” and, on this occasion at least, I ignored it. Once again my arrogance had got me into trouble.

How quick the crowd was to turn as Blaney struck. Never go down in the fight. It’s the one golden rule. But I had no choice as his fist made contact and bells rang in my head as I went to the deck on my hands and knees and spat out teeth on a string of blood and phlegm. My vision jarred and blurred. I’d been hit before, of course, many times, but never—never—as hard as that.

Amid the rushing of my pain and the roaring of the spectators—roaring for blood, which Blaney was going to give to them, with pleasure—he bent to me, putting his face close enough for me to smell his rancid breath, which spilled like fog over black and rotted teeth.

“‘Fat bastard,’ eh?” he said, and hawked up a green. I felt the wet slap of phlegm on my face. One thing you have to say about a “fat bastard” taunt—it always gets them going.

Then he straightened, and his boot was so near to my face I could see the spider-cracks in the leather. Still trying to shake off the pain, I lifted one pathetic hand as though to ward off the inevitable kick.

The kick, though, was aimed not at my face but squarely at my belly, so hard that it lifted me into the air and I was deposited back to the deck. From the corner of my eye I saw Thatch, and perhaps I had allowed myself to believe that he favoured me in the bout, but he was laughing just as heartily at my misfortune as he had been when Blaney was rocked. I rolled weakly to my side as I saw Blaney coming towards me. The men on the decks were shouting for blood by then. He lifted his boot to stamp me, looked up to Thatch. “Sir?” he asked him.

To hell with that. I wasn’t waiting. With a grunt I grabbed his foot, twisted it and sent him sprawling back to the deck. A tremor of renewed interest ran through the spectators. Whistles and shouts. Cheers and boos.

They didn’t care who won. They just wanted the spectacle. Blaney was down and with a fresh surge of strength I threw myself on top of him, pummelling him with my fists at the same time as I drove my knees into his groin and midriff, attacking him like a child in the throes of a temper tantrum, hoping against hope that I might lay him out with a lucky blow.

I didn’t. There were no lucky blows that day. Just Blaney grabbing my fists, wrenching me to the side, slamming the flat of his hand into my face and sending me flying backwards. I heard my nose break and felt blood gush over my top lip. Blaney lumbered over and this time he wasn’t waiting for Thatch’s permission. This time he was coming on for the kill. In his fist shone a blade . . .

There was the crack of a pistol and a hole appeared on his forehead. His mouth dropped open, and the fat bastard fell to his knees then dead to the deck.

When my vision cleared I saw Thatch reaching to help me from the deck with one hand. In the other a flint-lock pistol, still warm.

“I got a vacancy on my crew, lad,” he said. “Do you want to fill it?”

I nodded yes as I stood and looked down at Blaney’s body. A wisp of smoke rose from the bloody hole in his forehead. Should have killed me when you had the chance, I thought.

TWENTY-ONE

MARCH 1713

Miles away in a place I had never visited and never would—although, after all, it’s never too late—a bunch of representatives of England, Spain, France, Portugal and Holland were sitting down to draft a series of treaties that would end up changing all our lives, forcing us to take a new direction, shattering our dreams.

But that was to come. First I found myself adjusting to a new life—a life I liked very much.

I was lucky, I suppose, because Edward Thatch took to me. A scrapper, was what he called me and I think he liked having me around. He used to say that in me he had a trusted hand, and he was right, he did, for Edward Thatch had saved me from embarking on a life of crime under Captain Dolzell—well, either that or be thrown overboard like those other poor fellows. It was thanks to his intervention and being taken under his wing that I could make something of myself, return to Bristol and to Caroline as a man of quality, head held high.

And yes, just because you and I know that it didn’t work out that way doesn’t make it any less true.

Life at sea was very much the same as it had been before, but with certain attractive differences. There was no Blaney, of course. The last I’d seen of that particular barnacle on my life was him slipping into the sea like a dead whale. There was no Captain Alexander Dolzell, as he ended up being condemned to death by the British in 1715. Without those two, life on ship was an immediate improvement. It was the life of a privateer. We engaged the Spanish and Portuguese when we could, and took prizes when we were victorious. Along with the skills of a sailor I began to refine the craft of combat. From Thatch I learnt better sword skills and how to use pistols.

Also from Edward Thatch, I learnt a certain philosophy on life, a philosophy that he in turn had learnt from another, older buccaneer, a man under who Edward served and who would also be my mentor. A man named Benjamin Hornigold.

And where else should I meet Benjamin but at Nassau.

• • •

The Port of Nassau on New Providence Island was a kind of heaven for us. I’m not sure that we ever thought of that port, that little bit of the Bahamas, as ever really “belonging to us,” because that wasn’t our way. Nassau featured steep cliffs on one side flanking its long, sloping beach that swept down to a shallow sea—too shallow for Her Majesty’s men-of-war to get close enough for a bombardment. Its fortress on the hill overlooked a motley collection of shanty homes, huts and crumbling wooden terraces, the quayside where we discharged our booty and supplies. Benjamin Hornigold was there—of course he was, he had helped establish it with Tom Barrow. Nassau had a wonderful harbour, where our vessels enjoyed shelter from the elements and from our enemies. Making an attack even more difficult was the ships graveyard, where beached galleons and men-of-war—ships grounded by shallow waters—grounded, looted, burned, in many cases, their skeletal remains a warning to the unwary.