Assassin's Creed: Black Flag (21 page)

That was how we found ourselves marooned on Providencia. After a month adrift on the damaged
Ranger
, that was.

Jack had left us food and weapons but we had no means of steering or sailing the ship, so it was a month at sea in which we tried and failed to repair the broken rigging and masts and spent most of the day manning the pumps in order to stay afloat; a month in which I’d had to listen to Vane ranting and raving all hours of the day and night. Shaking his fist at thin air, he was. “I’ll get ya, Jack Rackham! I’ll open y’up. I’ll tear out your organs and string a bloody lute with them.”

We spent Christmas 1718 on the
Ranger
, bobbing around like a discarded liquor bottle on the waves, praying for mercy from the weather. Just me and him. Of course, we had no calendars or such, so it was impossible to say when Christmas fell or on which day 1718 became 1719, but I’m prepared to wager I spent them listening to Charles Vane rage at the sea, at the sky, at me, and especially at his old mucker, Calico Jack Rackham.

“I’ll get ya! You see if I don’t, y’scurvy bastid!”

When I tried to remonstrate with him, hinting that perhaps his constant shouting was doing more harm to our morale than good, he turned on me.

“Well, well, the fearsome Edward Kenway speaks!” he’d bawl. “Pray tell us, Cap’n, how to quit this predicament and tell us what genius you have for sailing a boat with no sails and no rudder.”

How we didn’t kill each other during that time, I’ll never know, but, by God, we were glad to see land. We hooted with pleasure, clasped each other, jumped up and down. We launched a yawl from the stricken
Ranger
, and as night fell we rowed ashore, then collapsed on the beach, exhausted but ecstatic that after a month drifting at sea we’d finally found land.

The next morning we awoke to find the
Ranger
wrecked against the beach and cursed one another for failing to drop anchor.

And then cursed our luck as we realized just how small it was, the island on which we were now marooned.

Providencia, it was called, a small island with its fair share of history. A bloody history, at that. English colonists, pirates and the Spanish had done nothing but fight over it for the best part of a century. Squabbling over it. Forty years ago, the great pirate Captain Henry Morgan had set his cap at it, recaptured it from the Spanish and used it as his base for a while.

By the time Vane and I set down upon the island, it was home to a few colonists, escaped slaves and convicts and the remnants of the Mosquito Indians, who were native to it. You could explore the abandoned fort, but there was nothing much left. Nothing you could eat or drink anyway. You could swim across to Santa Catalina, but then, that was even smaller, so mainly we spent the days fishing and finding frond oysters in small pools, and occasionally having a kind of snarling confrontation with groups of passing natives, ragged, wandering colonists or turtle fishermen. The colonists, in particular, always wore a wild, frightened look, as though they weren’t sure whether to attack or run away, and could just as well do either. Their eyes seemed to swivel in their sockets in different directions at once and they made odd, twitchy movements with dry, sun-parched lips.

I turned to Charles Vane after one particular encounter, about to comment, and saw that he too was wearing a wild look, and his eyes seemed to swivel in their sockets, and he made odd, twitchy movements with his dry, sun-parched lips.

Until whatever fragile cord holding Charles Vane together snapped one day, and off he went to start a new Providencia tribe. A tribe of one. I should have tried to talk him out of it.
“Charles, we must stick together.”
But I was sick to the back teeth of Charles Vane, and anyway, it wasn’t like I’d seen the last of him. He took to stealing my oysters for a start, scuttling out of the jungle, hairy and unshaven, his clothes ragged and with the look of a madman in his eyes. He’d scoop up my just-caught frond oysters, curse me for a bastard then scuttle back into the undergrowth from which he would curse me some more. My days were spent on the beach, swimming, fishing or scanning the horizon for vessels, all the time knowing full well he was tracking me from within the undergrowth.

On one occasion I tried to remonstrate with him. “Will you talk with me, Vane? Are you fixed on this madness?”

“Madness?” he responded. “Ain’t nothing mad about a man fighting to survive, is there?”

“I mean you no harm, you corker. Let’s work this out like gentlemen.”

“Ah. God I’ve a bloody headache on account of our jabbering. Now stay back and let me live in peace!”

“I would if you’d stop filching the food I gather, and the water I find.”

“I’ll stop nothing till you’ve paid me back in blood. You was the reason we were out looking for slavers. You was the reason Jack Rackham took my ship!”

You see what I had to contend with? He was losing his mind. He blamed me for things that were plainly his own fault. It was he who had suggested we go after The Observatory. It was he who’d caused our current predicament by killing the slaver captain. I had as much reason to hate him as he had to despise me. The difference between us was that I hadn’t lost my mind. At least not yet, anyway. He was doing his best to remedy that, it seemed. He got crazier and crazier.

“You and your fairy tales got us into this mess, Kenway!”

He stayed in the bushes, like a rodent in the darkened undergrowth, curled up in roots, crouched with his arms around the trunks of trees, crouched in his own stink and watching me with craven eyes. It began to occur to me that Vane might try to kill me. I kept my blades clean and though I didn’t wear them—I’d become accustomed to wearing very little—I kept them close at hand.

Before I knew it he graduated from being a madman ranting at me from within the undergrowth to leaving traps for me.

Until one day I decided I’d enough. I had to kill Charles Vane.

 • • • 

The morning that I set out to do it was with a heavy heart. I wondered whether it was better to have a madman as a companion than no companion at all. But he was a madman who hated me, and who probably wanted to kill me. It was either me or him.

I found him in a water hole, sitting crouched with his hands between his legs trying to make a fire and singing to himself, some nonsense song.

His back was offered to me, an easy kill, and I tried to tell myself I was being humane by putting him out of his misery as I approached stealthily and activated my blades.

But I couldn’t help myself. I hesitated, and in that moment he sprung his trap, flinging out one arm and tossing hot ashes into my face. As I reeled back he jumped to his feet, cutlass in hand, and the battle was on.

Attack. Parry. Attack
. I used my blades as a sword, meeting his steel and replying with my own.

I wondered: did he think of me as
betraying
him? Probably. His hatred gave him strength and for some moment he was no longer the pathetic troglodyte. But weeks spent crouching in the undergrowth and feeding off what he could steal had weakened him and I disarmed him easily. Instead of killing him then I sheathed my blades, unstrapped them and tossed them away, tearing off my shirt at the same time, and we fought with fists, stripped to the waist.

When I had him down I pummelled him, then I caught myself and stopped. I stood, breathing heavily, with blood dripping from my fists. Below me on the ground, Charles Vane. This unkempt, hermit-looking man—and, of course, I stank myself, but I wasn’t as bad as him. I could smell the shit I saw dried on his thighs as he half-rolled on the ground and spat out a tooth on a thin string of saliva, chuckling to himself.
Chuckling to himself like a madman.

“You Nancy boy,” he said, “you’ve only done half the job.”

I shook my head. “Is this my reward for believing the best about men? For thinking a bilge rat like you could muster up some sense once in a while? Maybe Hornigold was right. Maybe the world does need men of ambition, to stop the likes of you from messing it all up.”

Charles laughed. “Or maybe you just don’t have the stones to live with no regrets.”

I spat. “Don’t save me a spot in hell, shanker. I ain’t coming soon.”

I left him there and later, when I was able to help myself to a fisherman’s boat, I wondered whether to go and fetch him, but decided against.

God forgive me, but I’d had just about all I could take of Charles bloody Vane.

MAY 1719

I arrived home to Inagua after months away, thankful to be alive and glad to see my crew. Even more when I saw how pleased they were to see me.
He is alive! The cap’n is alive!
They celebrated for days, drank the bay dry, and it gladdened the heart to see.

Mary was there too, but dressed as James Kidd, so I banished all thoughts of her bosoms, called her James when others were present, even Adewalé, who rarely left my side when I first returned, as though not wanting to let me out of his sight.

Meanwhile Mary had news of my confederates: Stede Bonnet had been hung at White Point.

Poor old Stede. My merchant friend who evidently changed his mind where pirates were concerned—so much so he’d taken up the life himself. “The gentleman pirate,” they had called him. He’d worn a dressing-gown and worked the routes further north for a while, before meeting Blackbeard on his travels. The pair had teamed up, but because Bonnet was as bad a pirate captain as he was a sailor, which is to say a very bad pirate captain, his crew had mutinied and joined Blackbeard. For Bonnet the final insult was that he had to remain as a “guest” on Blackbeard’s ship, the
Queen Anne’s Revenge
. Well, not the “final insult” obviously. The final insult was being caught and hung.

Meanwhile on Nassau—poor, ailing Nassau—James Bonny was spying for Woodes Rogers, bringing more shame upon Anne than her roving eye ever had upon him, while Rogers had struck a mortal blow to the pirates. In a show of strength he’d ordered eight of them be hung on Nassau harbour, and since then his opposition had crumbled. Even a plot to kill him had been half-hearted and easily overthrown.

And—joy of joys—Calico Jack had been captured and the
Jackdaw
recovered. Turned out the liquor had got the better of Jack. Privateers commissioned by Jamaica’s governor had caught up with him south of Cuba. Jack and his men had gone ashore and were sleeping off the booze under tents when the privateers arrived, so they fled into the jungle and the
Jackdaw
was recovered. Since then the scurvy dog had crawled back to Nassau where he’d persuaded Rogers to give him a pardon and was hanging around the taverns selling stolen watches and stockings.

“So what now?” said Mary, having delivered her news. “Still chasing your elusive fortune?”

“Aye, and I’m close. I’ve heard The Sage is sailing out of Kingston on a ship called the
Princess
.”

Mary had stood and was beginning to walk away, headed for the port. “Put your ambition to better use, Kenway. Find The Sage with
us
.”

The Assassins she meant, of course. There was silence when I thought about them.

“I’ve no stomach for you and your mystics . . . Mary. I want a taste of the good life. An easy life.”

She shook her head and began to walk away. Over her shoulder she said, “No one honest has an easy life, Edward. It’s aching for one that causes the most pain.”

 • • • 

If the
Princess
was sailing out of Kingston, then that was where I needed to be.

And my God, Kingston was beautiful. It had grown from a refugee camp into the largest town in Jamaica, which isn’t to say it was an especially large town, just the largest in Jamaica, the buildings new yet rickety-looking, overlooked by hills populated by beautiful greenery and caressed by a cool sea-breeze that rolled off Port Royal and took some of the sting out of a blistering sun—just some of it, mind. I loved it. In Kingston, I’d look around and wonder if Nassau could have been this way, if we’d stuck at it. If we hadn’t allowed ourselves to be so easily corrupted.

The sea was the clearest blue and it seemed to glitter and hold aloft the ships that were anchored in the bay. For a moment, as I gasped at the beauty of the sea and was reminded of the treasures it held, I thought of Bristol. How I’d stood on the harbour there and looked out to the ocean, dreaming of riches and adventure. The adventure I’d found. The riches? Well, the
Jackdaw
hadn’t lain completely dormant during my time on Providencia. They’d taken some prizes. Added to what I already had in my coffers, I wasn’t rich, exactly, but neither was I poor. Perhaps I was finally a man of means.

But if I could just find The Observatory.

(Greed, you see, my sweet, is the undoing of many a man.)

Tethered at the quay were row-boats, dandies and yawls, but it wasn’t those I was interested in. I stopped and held a spyglass to my eye, scanning the horizon for signs of a slaver—the
Princess
—stopping to relish the glorious sight of the
Jackdaw
, then continued. Citizens and traders bustled past, all wares for sale. Soldiers too. Spaniards, with their blue tunics and tricorns, muskets over their shoulders. A pair of them passed, looking bored and gossiping.

“What’s all this fuss about here? Everyone’s got sticks shoved well up their arse today.”

“Aye, we’re on alert because of some visiting Spaniard. Toreador or Torres or something.”

So he was here. Him and Rogers. Did they know about The Sage on the
Princess
too?

Then something struck me as very interesting indeed, when I overheard a soldier say, “Do you know what I heard? Governor Rogers and Captain Hornigold are part of a secret society. A secret order made up of Frenchies and Spaniards and Italians and even some Turks.”

Templars, I was thinking, even as I caught sight of Ade beckoning to me. He stood with a sweaty, nervous-looking sailor, who was introduced as working for the Royal Africa Company. A jack-tar persuaded to talk with a surreptitious dagger in his ribs.

“Tell him what you told me,” said Ade.

The sailor looked uncomfortable. As you would, I suppose. “I haven’t seen the
Princess
for eight weeks or more,” he said. “Meaning she may soon be back.”

We let him go and I mulled over the news. The
Princess
wasn’t here . . . yet. We could stay, I decided. Bring the men ashore, make sure they behaved themselves, try not to attract too much attention . . .

Adewalé pulled me to one side. “I grow tired of chasing these fantasies of yours, Edward. As does the crew.”

That’s all I need. Unrest in the bloody crew.

“Hang in there, man,” I reassured him, “we’re getting close.”

Meanwhile, I had an idea. Find Rogers and Benjamin . . .

 • • • 

By sticking close to the harbour I found them, and began tailing them, remembering what I’d been taught by Mary. Staying out of sight and using the Sense to listen to their conversation.

“Have you alerted the men?” Woodes Rogers was saying. “We’re short on time.”

“Aye,” replied Hornigold, “there’ll be two soldiers waiting for us at the crossroads.”

“Very good.”

Ah, bodyguards. Now where might they be lurking?

Not wanting to be taken by surprise, I glanced around. But by then Hornigold was speaking again. “If you don’t mind me asking, sir. What’s the meaning behind these blood samples we’re taking?”

“Torres tells me that blood is required for The Observatory to properly function.”

“How do you mean, sir?”

“If one wishes to use The Observatory to, say . . . spy on King George, then one would require a drop of the king’s blood to do so. In other words, a small sample of blood gives us access to a man’s everyday life.”

Mumbo jumbo. I paid it little mind at the time, but I’d regret that later.

“Does Torres mean to spy on me, then?” Benjamin was saying. “For I have just given him a sample of my own blood.”

“As have I, Captain Hornigold. As will all Templars. As a measure of insurance.”

“And trust, I reckon.”

“Yes, but fear not. Torres has shipped our samples to a Templar base in Rio de Janeiro. We will not be The Observatory’s first subjects, I assure you.”

“Aye, sir. I suppose it’s a small price to pay for what the Templars have given me in return.”

“Precisely . . .”

“And what can we do for you?” a voice asked.

And that was when I met the two bodyguards they were talking about.