Black Sails – Tides of the Abyss

[LaLia]

Teaser:
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The author of this story has read and accepted the rules for posting stories. They guarantee that the following story depicts none of the themes listed in the Forbidden Content section of the rules.

The following story is a work of fiction meant for entertainment purposes only. It depicts nonconsensual sexual acts between adults. It is in no way meant to be understood as an endorsement of nonconsensual sex in real life. Any similarities of the characters in the story to real people are purely coincidental.
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Index:

• 1. - Flames of freedom

• 2. - The escape to Nassau

• 3. - A new life as a pirate

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Title: Black Sails – Tides of the Abyss
Author: LaLia
Chapter Tags: ---
Content Warnings: ---
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Black Sails – Tides of the Abyss

Flames of freedom


The night air hung heavily over Culverts Bay and it was well past midnight, and the stars twinkled over the northwestern tip of New Providence Island. In the small settlement, little more than a cluster of rickety shacks and warehouses, only a faint lantern glowed from "John's Inn." The tavern squatted like a sad shadow at the edge of the beach: a low building of weathered wood, its walls swollen with salt water and tropical humidity. The floor was made of roughly planed planks that creaked under every footstep, and the door was so low that even the smallest fisherman had to stoop to avoid bumping into it. A few rickety tables, surrounded by benches upholstered with nets and scraps of old canvas, formed the centerpiece. Faded maps of the Bahamas hung on the wall, a few hooks with tobacco pipes, and a shelf of bottles containing more dust than rum. It wasn't a place for gourmets—only for those looking to quench their thirst with cheap rum. The air smelled of spilled alcohol, fish scales, and the faint whiff of tobacco smoke that had settled in the rafters. Shabby, yes, but fitting for this wild corner of the world where civilization had no place.

Anne Bonny wiped the last few tables with an old rag, her movements mechanically and tired. The empty glasses clinked softly as she stacked them in a crate, and the echo echoed in the silence. Day in, day out, she stood here alone, entertaining the men who shuffled in to knock back their rum. Mostly they were workers from the nearby plantations—sweaty figures with calloused hands and empty eyes, who spoke of their endless toil under the sun. Sometimes traders came, bearing tales of distant ports, or fishermen raving about storms and rich catches. Anne, just twenty years old, had once dreamed of adventure, of winds carrying her across the open seas, of a freedom that knew no chains. But now those dreams seemed to end in a dead end, trapped in this stifling hole, while her husband James was once again absent. Where was he? Probably in Nassau, the noisy capital, with his dive bar friends, gambling, and whores who were cheaper than his promises.

Anne straightened up, brushed a strand of her wild, auburn hair from her face, and sighed. Her life story read like a ballad of betrayal and rebellion, which she often relived on quiet nights like this, as if the memories could keep her warm. She was born in County Cork, Ireland, near the picturesque port town of Kinsale, where the Atlantic crashed against jagged cliffs. Her mother, Mary, had been a simple servant, with gentle hands and a heart too big for poverty. Her father, William Cormac—or McCormac, as he sometimes called himself to emphasize his Irish pride—was a respected lawyer, married to a woman of good family. Anne was born out of wedlock, a scandal that hung like a shadow over the family. To stifle the neighbors' gossip, William had grabbed Mary and little Anne and fled with them across the ocean to the American colonies. They settled in the Province of Carolina, near the thriving city of Charleston—present-day South Carolina—where he used his savings to purchase a plantation. Tobacco fields stretched out there like green seas, and the air hummed with the cries of slaves and the crack of whips.

William had raised Anne strictly and old-fashionedly, with a firm hand and iron rules. "I wish I had a son," he often murmured when she once again came back from the forest with her dress torn instead of sitting in the house stitching. His words had only fanned her temper like wind fanning a fire. Anne was unruly, a whirlwind of laughter and defiance, straining against the shackles of society. A proper marriage? Never. She wanted to feel free, like the wind in a ship's sails. That's how she met James Bonny, a sailor with weather-beaten skin and tales of distant shores. He was ten years older, strong and charming, with eyes that glittered with the sea. She loved him—or at least she thought she did—and when they married, William disowned her. No inheritance, no farewell, just a curse and a locked door. But Anne didn't care. Freedom tasted sweeter than gold.

With some money stolen from their father's safe, her final act of rebellion—and James's hard-earned coins, they set out. The journey took two weeks via Charleston Harbor: cramped cabins, filthy decks, and the endless rocking of the ship, which frightened and intoxicated Anne in equal measure. They landed in the Bahamas, on New Providence Island, the seething center of the so-called "Golden Age of Piracy." Here, outlaws ruled the waves, ships were plundered, and rum flowed like rain in the rainy season. At first, they lived in a small cottage on the edge of the settlement, a rickety structure made of palm leaves and clay. James found work on the Underhill Plantation, where he worked as an overseer, driving the slaves—work that left his hands rough and his eyes blank. After two years, their money was enough to buy the old, dilapidated tavern on the beach. "John's Inn"— as they named it after James's nickname, which they renovated with their own hands. Anne was free, or so it felt in the first few months: the sand beneath her feet, the sound of the sea, the freedom to live her own life. But love faded like an old rag. James was often absent for days, spending his days in Nassau with rum, gambling, and whores, while Anne pulled the strings alone.

It was getting late, the lantern flickering in the breeze from the open door. Anne extinguished the last candle, threw the rag over her shoulder, and reached for the latch to finally close the tavern. The moon cast silver streaks across the floor, and outside, the wind howled through the palm trees. But just as she pulled the heavy wooden door shut, the hinges creaked in protest. Two men stumbled in, their boots leaving dirty marks on the freshly mopped planks. She knew them—they were workers from the nearby plantation, beefy men with faded shirts and beards caked with tobacco and salt. Both visibly drunk, their eyes glazed over, their steps unsteady as if in a storm at sea. One, a redhead named Tom, grinned crookedly; the other, a beefy fellow with a scar across his cheek whom she only knew by sight, laughed raucously.

"Closed," Anne said sharply, her voice a whip crack in the silence. "Come back tomorrow."

The men ignored her as if she were a mere breath of wind. Tom wiped the sweat from his brow and headed for the nearest table, while the other man pulled a bottle from his pocket and took a swig. "Oh, come on, Anne, sweetie. Just a glass for old friends. The night's young!"

"Get out," she repeated, louder this time, and stood in front of the bar, arms crossed. Her heart pounded, but she didn't flinch. "I meant it. Go home."

The burly man just laughed, a rumbling sound that echoed through the empty tavern. Despite her repeated requests to leave, they simply sat down at one of the tables, leaned back, and kicked their feet. Tom rapped his fist on the counter. "Bring us a drink, girls. Double rum. And hurry."

Actually, Anne managed to command respect, despite her young age. Her confident manner, the Irish temper that rose like a storm out of nowhere, coupled with a certain charm—she had learned how to talk to the men. A sharp look, a mocking laugh, a word that cut like a blade, and they stepped back, bawling but obedient. She was no helpless maid, no mere landlady. But now, at this moment, it was different. The atmosphere was threatening, aggressive, like the smell of gunpowder before a shot. The air in the tavern seemed to thicken, suffocating, and Anne's heart pounded against her ribs as if it wanted to escape.

"I'll say it one last time: Get out," she hissed, her voice venomous and determined. Her green eyes flashed in the lantern light, and she clenched her fists, ready to fight as she always had—with teeth and nails when words weren't enough.

But the burly man ignored her. His paw shot out, grabbing her roughly by the hip, fingers like iron clamps digging into her flesh. With a jerk, he yanked her toward him, forcing her onto his lap. Her skirt rode up, and she felt the rough wool of his trousers against her thighs. "Shut up, woman," he growled, his breath hot and putrid, a stench of cheap rum and unkempt teeth. His free hand immediately began to wander, rough and demanding: He groped her, kneading her hips as if they were dough, then slid higher, grabbing her breasts, squeezing them through the fabric of her bodice until she gasped in pain. The rough fabric rubbed against her skin, and he laughed, a deep, throaty growl, while Tom watched and laughed at the table - high, nervous chuckle that sounded like the screech of a seagull scenting prey.

Anne struggled, her temper flaring like a spark in dry grass. She lashed out at him, her hand whipping through the air, catching his cheek with a sharp slap. But it had no effect; he was far too strong, a colossus of muscle and fat, hardened by plantation labor under the merciless sun. His skin was like leather, and he only grinned wider, as if she'd tickled him. Instead, he swung, his blow the opposite—brutish, precise, a hammer blow that landed on her cheek. The pain exploded in her mind, a flash, and she tasted the blood on her lip, warm and metallic, as she staggered through the tavern. Her fingers clawed at the air, searching for purchase, barely finding the edge of the bar before she fell. The world swayed, stars danced before her eyes, and for a moment, all she heard was the pounding of her own blood.

The beefy man was faster than he looked—and faster than his blood pressure suggested. In a split second, he was upon her, his massive form casting a shadow over her as he grabbed her, twisted her arms, and pressed her torso against the freshly mopped surface of the counter. The wood was cold and sticky beneath her cheek, the smell of soap and spilled rum mingling with her sweat of fear. "Fucking whore," he panted, his hot breath on her neck, and she smelled the tang of alcohol, sour and overpowering, as he leaned over her. With one hand, he held her wrists above her head, the other lifting her skirt, pushing up her petticoat with it, exposing her thighs to the cool night air. Anne kicked at him, wild and desperate, her boot catching his shin with a dull thud that made him curse briefly. But it only delayed him—a moment of hesitation in which she drew a breath, only to have it taken away from him immediately. Roughly, he forced her legs apart, his knees forcing her open, and then he entered her, hard and without warning.

It was a thrust that tore her apart—his thick cock, swollen with alcohol and greed, bored deep into her, stretching her beyond capacity. Anne screamed, a raw, animalistic sound that echoed in the empty tavern, but no one was there to hear. He rammed himself into her again and again, a brutal rhythm that shook the bar, the wood creaking in protest under the weight of their two bodies. Her long, auburn hair spread across the counter like a fan, strands clinging to her sweat-drenched brow, while tears ran down her cheeks, hot and salty, and dripped onto the surface, little beads of humiliation. The floor squeaked with each thrust, as if the planks themselves groaned under the force, and the beefy man grunted like an animal, his hips slapping against her ass, deeper, harder, as if he wanted to penetrate her. Each thrust sent waves of pain through her body, a fire that ate from within, and she bit her lip until new blood flowed.

Suddenly, however, he stopped, his rhythm breaking like a rope underload. A gust of air swept through the room, cool and unexpected, and the door opened with a squeak of its hinges. Tom, the other plantation worker, jumped frantically to his feet, his chair tipping over, and he stared at the door, eyes wide open. The burly man was still inside her, motionless, his breath caught in his throat, when her husband, James, entered the tavern. The moon cast its pale light on him, painting shadows on his face—calm features, a beard wild and unkempt. He stood, taking in the scene for a moment, his eyes raking Anne's disheveled hair, the hiked-up skirt, the male figure on top of her. The three men looked at each other—Tom and the burly man like trapped dogs, unsure whether flight or threat was the right course. Anne wanted to say something, wanted to scream, plead, curse, but the words wouldn't come; Her throat felt tight, a lump of shame and pain suffocating her.

To her horror, James gave only a curt nod, a barely perceptible lift of his chin, as if settling a score, and walked impassively past the scene. His boots clattered on the planks, he didn't glance back, heading straight for the door to the upstairs rooms where they lived—their home, which now seemed like a distant hope. Tom and the burly man exchanged a glance, then burst into laughter, a harsh, relieved bark that rent the air. The burly man hesitated only a moment, then carried on as if nothing had happened, ramming himself deeper into her, with renewed fervor, as if James's silence had given him his blessing.

Anne was left horrified, living a true nightmare for the next half hour. The beefy man took her long, hard, with endurance—his body a relentless enemy, pounding into her, sweat dripping from his forehead onto her back, mingling with her tears. He cursed softly, gasping her name like a curse, and she felt each thrust deep within her soul, a ripping that went deeper than a dagger. Finally, with one final, deep thrust, he came, pouring himself into her, hot and sticky, and withdrew. Anne slumped to the floor, her legs giving way, landing on the creaking planks, a heap of crumpled fabric and broken will, the world blurred before her eyes.

But only seconds later, Tom was on top of her, his weight lighter but no less crushing. He spread her legs wide, his hands trembling, the lust in his eyes wild and untamed, and took his predecessor's place. It didn't hurt as much as before—her body had gone numb—but the anguish was worse than any physical pain: the humiliation ate into her, a poison burning her soul as he thrust into her, hastily and clumsily, grunting with pleasure.

When the two men were finally finished, they straightened up, pulled up their trousers, and tossed a few coins on the table as if it were an ordinary round of rum. They laughed once more, one last time, and stumbled out into the night, the door slamming shut behind them. Anne was left like that, alone, her broken body battered, her soul a shambles. The lantern flickered dimly, casting dancing shadows across the empty tavern, and outside, the sea roared.

The next day crept like a shadow over Culverts Bay, gray and rainy, as if the sky itself wept for Anne's anguish. She hadn't opened the tavern—the bolt remained locked, the door closed, and the men who usually passed by with their buckets and nets only cast astonished glances at the silent building. Anne lay all day in her upstairs bed, curled up like a wounded animal, staring at the stained ceiling and feeling the pain throbbing inside her, a dull drumbeat that grew louder with every breath. Her face was swollen, her lip split, and there was a burning sensation between her thighs. But worse was the cold in her chest, the emptiness where love had once been. James had been on the move again, as always, away from dawn, in Nassau or wherever rum took him. It wasn't until evening that he appeared, stumbling through the tavern door, his hat askew, his eyes glazed over from drinking.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he grumbled, throwing his coat over a chair and reaching for a bottle on the shelf. "The tavern was closed? Have you lost your mind? We need the money."

Anne stood up, slowly, as if any movement might tear her apart. Her hands trembled, but her voice was firm, a steely ring in silence. "You saw me last night. Those bastards... in our tavern. And you didn't do anything. Just nodded and walked away like it was a fucking joke." She stepped closer, her green eyes blazing, the Irish fire that never died. "Why? Why didn't you defend me? Your wife, James. Or am I no longer that?"

He laughed, a short, bitter bark that sounded like a slash. He took a sip, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Defend? From them? They pay well for their rum, Anne. And honestly? You must have enjoyed it. You with your temper, always so fiery. They only gave you what you wanted."

The words struck her like a dagger, tearing open the last shackle. She didn't understand how it had come to this. Love had turned into indifference, creeping like fog over the sea—his absences, his lies, the nights he didn't come home. And now it turned into hatred, pure and biting, a poison coursing through her veins. "You miserable coward!" she screamed, her voice breaking through the tavern like thunder. "I begged for help, with my eyes, and you... you sold me like a whore! For what? A few thalers from them?"

James' face darkened, the alcohol fanning its own flame. He put the bottle down, hard enough that it wobbled. "Shut up, woman! You've ruined everything here. Your stubborn Irish talk, your dreams of freedom. I work for us, and you whine like a virgin!" His voice rose, grew rawer, the words spat like poison. "Without me, you'd be nothing! A thief was chased away by her daddy. And now you're crying because two guys took you? This is life here, Anne! Pirates, plantations, rum—and women like you who have to learn to keep quiet!"

The argument grew heated; a whirl of screams that made the walls shake. They shrieked at each other, words flying like arrows: She accused him of his whores, his games, his cowardice; he roared about her ingratitude, her savagery, which had dragged him into this hell. The air crackled with rage, raw and animalistic, as if the tavern itself were breathing, heavy with sweat and hatred. Anne felt the anger explode within her, a final spark that wanted to burn everything. Her hand shot out, whipping through the air - slap, sharp and precise, that landed on his cheek, leaving a red mark. For a moment, there was silence, breathless, the world hanging by a thread. James's eyes opened wide, disbelieving, then darkened into a black storm.

He struck back, brutally and without hesitation. His fist slammed into her cheek, knocking her head to the side, and a second blow followed, a gut punch that made her double over. Air was expelled from her lungs, pain exploded in waves, and she staggered to the floor, the planks hard beneath her knees. But he wasn't finished— he grabbed her by the hair, yanking her up, strands tearing free, and she cried out, a wail of pure agony. "You little witch," he snarled, his face contorted in fury. "This is exactly what you deserve." With a jerk, he shoved her down onto one of the barstools, which creaked under her weight, and hiked up her skirt, exposing her thighs to the cold air. His hands were everywhere, rough and demanding, his breath hot against her ear as he leaned forward, ready to do the same thing the beefy man had done the night before—to take her, to break her, as if she were his own.

But resistance flared up inside Anne, a final surge of the fire that never quite let her go out. Her hands searched for purchase, groping blindly across the counter, finding the bottle of rum he'd set down earlier — heavy, glassy, full of the liquid that had destroyed so many lives. With a scream that tore from her soul, she swung, striking him head-on. The bottle shattered with a sharp crack, shards flying, and rum spilled across the floor. James backed away, staggering, his hand to his forehead where a gash lay, blood running down his face. Furious, he pulled his knife from his belt, the blade flashing in the lantern light—a seaman's knife, sharp as shark's teeth. "I'll kill you, you..."

Anne reacted instinctively, the will to survive a flash in the darkness. With the broken bottle in her hand, the sharp edges smeared with blood, she stabbed—deeply, precisely, into his neck. The blade penetrated, a wet ripple, and his blood spurted out, hot and sticky, mingling with the rum on the wooden floor, forming a red puddle that spread. James's eyes opened, wide and disbelieving, a gurgle escaping his throat, then he slumped, a heap of flesh and betrayal, tumbling to the floor.

Anne was shocked at first, feeling paralyzed, staring at her husband's corpse, the blood staining her hands. Her breath came in gasps, the room spun, and for a moment she thought she would fall, plunge into the puddle, drown in the chaos she had created. But then she acted instinctively again, the survival instinct awakening her. She gathered a few belongings—her cloak, a bundle of clothes, the small pouch containing the last coins she'd hidden under the mattress. Her movements were hectic but precise, as if an inner voice urged her: Run before it's too late. From the cellar, she rolled up one of the oil drums, the heavy barrels they used for the lamps. The wood of the stairs creaked under the weight, and she gasped, sweat beading on her forehead. At the top, she tipped out the oil, a slippery gush that flowed across the floor, coating the counter, soaking the shelves. With trembling hands, she struck a match and threw it into the pool. A flame blazed up, hungry and yellow, eating through the oil, leaping onto the wooden walls.

She fled through the back door, out into the night, the sand of the dunes soft beneath her feet. From a safe distance, a hundred meters away, in the cover of the dunes, she crouched and watched. The flames spread, enveloping the tavern like a caress from the devil, licking the beams, consuming the roof. Sparks flew into the sky, an orange glow appeared, and the smoke rose, thick and black, carrying with it the smell of wood and death. It took ten, fifteen minutes, before the first inhabitants of the settlement noticed. A fisherman returning with his boat shouted the alarm, and soon everyone rushed: women in nightgowns, men with buckets, children with wide-open eyes. They fetched water from the beach in buckets, throwing it at the flames in desperate haste, but the fire was already too strong, a monster that fed on itself. The heat drove them back, and everyone could only watch as the tavern burned down—an inferno that consumed James's body, erasing the puddle and all traces. The residents of the settlement, all now rushing over, stared into the flames from close range, whispering prayers and curses, while Anne, hidden in the dunes, felt the heat on her skin and knew: This was the end. And the beginning.

[LaLia]

The escape to Nassau

The night had been an endless nightmare, a battle against the darkness and the shadows in her own mind. Anne had struggled through the hours. Aimlessly, she had followed the beach southward, the silver ribbon of the moon winding across the bay. The wind whipped sand into her eyes, and the roar of the waves whispered lies with oblivion. She hadn't dared to stop—not with the fire behind her, burning like a beacon of her guilt. But as the first glimmer of dawn kissed the horizon, the outline of Nassau loomed before her: the pirate stronghold, with its tall masts, smoking chimneys, and the cries of seagulls and men. The outlaw capital, where gold flowed faster than blood, and where a woman like her might just disappear.

Soaked and shivering, her cloak like a wet shroud, Anne stumbled into the city's narrow streets. The air was thick with the smell of rum, fish, and unquenchable thirst, mingled with the sweat of sailors returning from distant shores. She found a small inn on the edge of the harbor—"The Rusty Anchor," a ramshackle structure of wood and hope—where the landlord, a one-eyed Scotsman, eyed her suspiciously. "Two pence for a room and some porridge," he grumbled. Anne rummaged through her pouch for the last of the coins she'd taken from the tavern and received a steaming bowl of porridge with salted fish and a bed in a stuffy attic room that smelled of mildew and past guests. She spent the day there, curled up under a scratchy blanket, shivering with cold and exhaustion. Unsure whether she would be hunted down as a murderer—news of the fire must have already spread across the islands, carried by fishermen and traders—but here in Nassau she was safer. Unlike on the plantations, where rumors blazed like fire and bounty hunters lurked with their hounds, the pirate city operated under different rules: Here, chaos devoured its own children.

The next morning, as the sunbathed the rooftops in gold, Anne ventured out. The streets were already teeming with life: Sailors cursed in a dozen languages, prostitutes leaned in doorways, and carts rumbled over the cobblestones, laden with barrels. She looked for work, knocking on tavern doors and speaking with merchant captains who occasionally sailed into port. “A woman at sea? That brings bad luck!” laughed a bearded Dutchman, spitting. None of the pirates or captains wanted her on their crews—women were “bad omens,” they said, or worse, “just ballast.” For loading goods at the port, where crates of sugar, tobacco, and gunpowder were hoisted, they preferred strong men with arms like anchor chains and backs that had weathered storms. Anne, with her slender limbs and Irish fire in her eyes, was nothing more than a pretty nuisance to them.

None of the taverns were looking for anyone to work behind the bar; she could have done it, with nimble hands and a sharp tongue that could keep the drunks in check. But the landladies, tough women themselves, just shrugged: "Too many mouths already, girl." Dejected, she wandered about until she ended up in front of the door of an unassuming tavern that seemed like a facade—"Guthrie's Rest." Richard Guthrie, the owner, had originally been a respected British merchant, with fine suits and an accent that spoke of London's drawing-rooms. Over the years, however, he had become increasingly involved in illegal trade and smuggling, his ships laden with goods that never saw customs. As piracy flourished in the Caribbean, he saw a gap in the market: pirates plundered ships, but could hardly sell their loot—gold, silk, spices—or convert it into civilized goods without risking the gallows. This is where Guthrie stepped in as a middleman and money launderer. Through his trade connections, he could sell stolen goods on the black market, in ports from Boston to Bridgetown, and in return supply the pirates with much-needed provisions: gunpowder, rum, canvas, even slaves, if the price was right. Perhaps he needed help? In one of his warehouses, where crates were stacked like a thief's secrets, or in the small tavern that served as a front to deceive prying eyes?

But even here Anne had no luck. Guthrie himself, a man with a sharp gaze and a smile like a shark, shook his head: "No places for Irish girls who reek of trouble." Dejected, she sank down on the steps in front of the tavern, the sun beating down on her neck, the world seeming to close in, a cage of salt and despair. Then the door swung open, and a young blonde woman stepped out. Her green eyes sparkled in the midday sun like emeralds in the light of a treasure, her clothes—a fine linen dress with a lace collar—careful and betraying her higher social standing, as if she had stepped out of the drawing-rooms of the colonies. She sat down beside Anne on the step, so close that the scent of lavender enveloped her, and handed her a cup of rum. "Are you thirsty?" she asked, smiling, a charming smile that sent warmth to Anne's cold chest. Anne looked at her—ever since her youth, she had been drawn to women, to their gentleness and strength, qualities men lacked. She nodded silently, took the cup, and drank a hasty gulp that burned like fire in her throat, banning the cold.

The two women conversed, hesitantly at first, tentatively. The stranger spoke with a soft accent that hinted at education and asked questions that sounded curious but not intrusive: about Anne's origins, the Ireland in her eyes, the winds that had driven her here. "I am Eleanor Guthrie," she said finally, with a laugh that tinkled like bells. "Daughter of the house. And you? You look as if you've survived storms that would sink others." Anne murmured her name, avoiding deeper glances, but Eleanor pressed gently. “What brings you here, all alone? Without a man, without a plan? Nassau is no place for dreamers without anchors.” The words stung Anne like a knife—she couldn’t tell what had happened, the night of the fire, the blood on her hands, the screams that echoed in her head. “Nothing to do with you,” she retorted, her voice sharp as a boarding axe, but Eleanor didn’t back down. “Father is stubborn, but I’ll talk to him again. Where can I find you? A camp? An address?” Anne shook her head, stood up abruptly, the cup clattering to the ground. “I don’t need any help,” she murmured and simply walked away, her footsteps echoing on the pavement, away from the smile that had almost been shattered.

But perhaps Anne really could have used a friend. On the way back to the inn, through the narrow alleys where merchants hawked their wares and beggars begged for alms, loneliness gnawed at her like cancer. The small room at “The Rusty Anchor”, for which her money wouldn't last much longer—perhaps two or three nights—was still a refuge, a dark nest where she could breathe. But what then? Anne knew that the only reliable way for a woman to earn money was to sell herself and her body: in the brothels along the harbor, where the nights were long and the souls short. And that was out of the question for her. Not after what she had endured, not after the fire that still consumed her from within. She had been born free, or had believed she had, and she would not turn to ash.

In the following days, Anne tried to find work again, but no matter where she knocked or whom she approached at the harbor, she was turned away every time. The captains eyed her askance, the tavern owners just laughed, and the merchants on the quay waved her off as if she were a bothersome flock of seagulls. "Get lost, girl, we don't need any women who only cause trouble," they said once again, followed by a mocking grin. And then came the lewd words that hurt her the most: "I'll pay you if you give me a blowjob." She heard it often, from rough sailors with sooty hands and eyes, who assessed her like merchandise. Slowly, doubt crept up inside her, cold and slimy like the crabs in the harbor. Was this the only way to survive? To kneel down, open her mouth, swallow her disgust—for a few pence to cover the room? The flames in her soul flickered, threatening to go out, and in quiet moments, when the sunbathed Nassau in red light, she wondered if freedom was just a dream that ended in the gutter.

And then, one stifling afternoon, as the harbor shimmered with heat, her gaze fell upon a handsome young sailor. He was leaning against the railing of a schooner, his skin bronzed by the sun, his hair curly and matted with salt, his eyes blue as the sea before a storm. He smiled at her, shyly, almost embarrassed, but didn't dare speak to her—perhaps out of respect or fear of her wild stare. Anne returned the smile, a spark of her old charm. It was a game she played to fill the emptiness, and she enjoyed the way he blushed, tipped his hat, and stammered, "Beautiful day, isn't it?" She chuckled softly, moved closer, pushed a strand of hair from her face, and whispered, "Too hot for a man alone. Would you mind showing me the way? I don't know any alleys around here." Her words were honey mixed with poison, and he followed her, his eyes fixed on her hips, as she led him into a narrow harbor alley where the walls were covered in moss and the stench of fish and sewage hung heavily.

There, in the shadow of the crates and barrels, where the cries of the port were only a distant murmur, she soon knelt before him. Her knees ached on the rough cobblestones, but she ignored it, tugging at his belt until his trousers fell. He gasped as her lips enveloped his penis, warm and skillful—a dance she hated but mastered, her tongue circling, her hands on his thighs, until he trembled. He was young, impatient, and it didn't take long: with a stifled groan, he came in her mouth, hot and bitter, and she swallowed so as not to leave a trace. For a moment she paused, looked up at him, his face contorted with lust and shame, then reached for the stone lying next to her—a fist-sized boulder, rough as her soul. With a swift swing, she struck him, hitting his temple, and he crumpled, letting out a soft whimper. Anne hastily searched his pockets: a few silver coins, a knife, a leather pouch of tobacco. Enough for a few days at the inn. She wiped her mouth, stood up, and disappeared into the alley, her heart pounding with triumph and disgust.

But regret gnawed at her, a sting deeper than the taste of his semen, which only faded after a bottle of rum. She sat in her room, stared in the mirror, saw the stranger with the bloodshot eyes, and wondered if she had become a whore after all—not for money, but for the survival she so despised. The rum burned, easing the bitter aftertaste, but the shame remained, a shadow that fell over her dreams. What had become of the young man? She didn't know, and she didn't care—perhaps he woke up with a headache, perhaps bleeding in the alley, perhaps dead. The waves would sort it out, she thought, and washed the thought away with another swig.

But fate seemed destined to take its revenge. When she returned to the inn after another fruitless search—again met only with scorn and rejection—her last bit of money, hidden under the mattress, was gone. The bag she had filled was empty. Anne stormed down to the bar, grabbed the one-eyed innkeeper by the collar: "You thief! That was my money—give it back, or I swear I'll set your hole on fire!" The Scotsman, speaking with anger, shook her off, his voice a rumble of thunder: "Me? A thief? My honor insulted, you Irish witch! Out! Take your curse and piss off!" He dragged her to the door, threw her cloak after her, and the guests laughed as if it were a joke. “Then sleep in the street!” he roared after her, slamming the door shut.

Anne did indeed spend the coming days and nights in the dark alleys of Nassau, where the moon cast only faint shadows and the wind whistled through the cracks in the huts. Always on guard against further attacks—the thieves who lurked in the night, or the drunken sailors looking for easy prey—she kept the knife she had stolen from the young seaman close at hand, its blade cold and familiar like an old enemy. Her fingers gripped the handle so tightly that her knuckles turned white, and at every rustle, every distant footstep, she froze, her heart pounding in her chest. She quenched her thirst with rainwater that stood in puddles, stagnant and murky, always with the risk of getting sick—a sip that tasted like poison and made her stomach cramp, but she had no choice. Hunger tormented her worst, a gnawing pain that ate into her very core until she trembled with weakness. Day in, day out, she wandered about, sifting through garbage heaps for breadcrumbs or scraps of fish that the seagulls had rejected, but she found no food. The world blurred before her eyes, her cheeks hollow, her skin pale as parchment. Anne seemed to be losing her dream more and more, the flame within her suffocated by the ash of despair; life seemed to drain from her, days without food had taken their toll—her steps became plodding, her thoughts sluggish, and in the nights, she wept silently, her tears hot on the cold earth.

After some time—how many days it was, she no longer knew, time slipping through her fingers like sand—Eleanor found her. It was dusk when the sun sank blood-red over the harbor, and Anne huddled in a narrow alley behind overturned barrels, her body pressed against the wall to avoid being seen. Eleanor, wrapped in a simple coat that concealed her refined station, had been searching for her—through the taverns, the markets, the alleys, driven by an instinct she herself could not explain. “Anne!” she called softly, her voice a whisper in the wind, and when Anne raised her head, her green eyes dull with exhaustion, Eleanor knelt down, her face pale with fright. “Good God, what has happened to you? Come with me, I will help you.” Anne shook her head, backed away, her voice a croak: “Leave me alone… I don’t need charity. Go away before they drag you and me through the mud.” But Eleanor was no less determined than Anne—her eyes flashed, and she grasped Anne's arm, firmly but not brutally. "You fool. Do you think I'll let you rot here? Get up, or I'll have you carried away like a child." The words were sharp, but beneath them lay concern, and when Anne protested weakly, Eleanor hauled her to her feet, supported her with an arm around her waist, and led her through the fading shadows, away from the alleys and into a possible safety.

She put Anne in a small room in one of her father's warehouses, well hidden behind stacks of crates and bales that smelled of spices and tobacco. The room was cramped but secure—a forgotten alcove with a straw mattress, a lantern, and a door that Eleanor locked with a heavy bolt. "No one will find you here," she murmured as she helped Anne onto the loft. "Father knows nothing about this; only I have the key." She brought her something to eat and drink: a piece of bread with cheese, fresh water in a jug, and a bowl of soup that was still steaming. Anne devoured it as if she had never tasted anything better, tears mingling with the bites, and for the first time in a long time, she felt strength seeping back into her limbs.

Then Eleanor persuaded Anne that she had to wash – “You’ll freeze your bones off, look at you, you’re a ghost.” She filled an old trough, meant for goods, with lukewarm, clear water from a barrel and placed a bar of almond-scented soap beside it. Anne hesitated, her hands trembling, but Eleanor’s gaze brooked no argument. Slowly, Anne undressed, layer by layer: the tattered cloak, the filthy shirt, the skirt stiff with mud and salt. Her skin was pale and scarred, her ribs shadowy beneath the fabric, and she felt a pang of shame, but Eleanor didn’t look away, only gently, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She dipped the sponge into the water and began to wash Anne’s back – circular motions that wore off the grime, the water turning brownish. The sponge slid over her shoulders, then Eleanor's hands touched her, soft and warm, lathering her arms, smoothing over the marks left by the nights. Anne closed her eyes, a shiver running through her as the touches deepened—over her breasts, her stomach, her thighs—not demanding, but healing, as if Eleanor were washing the cold out of her. For the first time in days, Anne felt life return, a pulse that pulsed from her skin to her soul, but she was too weak to think of anything more, too exhausted to turn the warmth into anything other than comfort. A soft "thank you" escaped her lips, barely audible, and Eleanor simply nodded, her eyes moist, as she wrapped Anne in a soft towel, pulling it tightly around her. Then she put her arms around her, drew her close, and for a moment, in the stillness of the room, Anne savored the closeness, the warmth, and Eleanor's presence—thoughts fell silent in Anne's mind, and the world shrank to that single breath.

There they were again, the eyes. Anne gazed into them, those emerald-green depths shimmering like an ocean of secrets, and felt Eleanor's fire—a blazing, gentle glow that didn't burn but warmed, as if drawing the cold from her bones. The room, with its dim lantern light casting shadows on the walls, seemed to shrink, the air filled with the wares and the scent of soap. Eleanor's arms still held Anne in their embrace, the towel a loose band around her hips, and in that moment, when the world outside was only a distant murmur, Eleanor gently lifted Anne's chin, her thumb brushing her lower lip, a touch as delicate as the first rain on parched earth. Anne held her breath, her heart a wild pounding, and then, as if time stretched, their heads dipped toward each other. Their lips met hesitantly at first, a breath, a taste, soft and salty with tears and sea, Eleanor's mouth warm and inviting, the kiss a whisper that penetrated deeper. Anne sighed softly, her hand gliding tentatively over Eleanor's cheek, the skin smooth as silk beneath her fingers, and she drew her closer, deepening the kiss, their tongues touching shyly, then more exploratively, a dance of discovery and desire that took their breath away.

Slowly, as if each movement revealed a precious secret, the towel fell to the floor, a soft rustle on the straw, and Anne's naked body, still damp from the bath, pressed against Eleanor's dress, which now seemed like a barrier that had to fall. Anne pulled away for a moment, her fingers trembling with longing, unbuttoned the top buttons, pushed the fabric over Eleanor's shoulders, revealing the pale skin, the curve of her breasts, which shimmered golden in the lantern light. Eleanor helped, letting the dress slide to the floor, a sigh escaping her as they were both naked now, skin to skin, the warmth a promise. They pressed themselves against each other, breasts to breasts, nipples hard with arousal, and Anne felt Eleanor's heartbeat, fast and in sync with her own. Her hands wandered, explored: Anne's fingers traced Eleanor's back, following the line of her spine, slid down to her buttocks, gently kneading the flesh, drawing her closer, while Eleanor's hands gripped Anne's hips, holding them as if she would never let go. The kisses grew more intimate, more passionate, a swirl of tongues and lips filling the room with soft sighs, bites that didn't hurt but ignited, and Anne lost herself in it, the world shrinking to that single point of touch.

The fingers grew bolder, driven by a desire that could no longer be contained. Anne felt it first as Eleanor's hand slid lower, caressing her stomach, parting the soft skin of her inner thighs, and finally settling between her legs—a gentle pressure that made Anne gasp, a moan rising from deep in her throat, full of pleasure and release. The touch was electric, Eleanor's fingers slowly circling her sensitive clitoris, teasing until moisture moistened it, and Anne arched toward her, her own fingers now seeking Eleanor's center, finding the warmth, the wetness, which Eleanor answered with a soft whimper. "Anne..." she breathed, and it was a prayer, not a command, as their bodies rocked, rubbing against each other, the heat between them growing.

In this extended dance of pleasure, they merged, a slow, rhythmic act that dissolved the boundaries between them. Eleanor's fingers plunged deeper, sliding into Anne's tight warmth, first one, then two, curling, finding the spot that sent waves of ecstasy, and Anne moaned louder, her body trembling as if a storm raged within her—moisture flowing freely, wetting Eleanor's hand, making every movement slippery and inviting, a natural glide that dictated the rhythm, fast and then slow again, an up and down that drove Anne to the edge. She returned it with equal devotion, her fingers exploring Eleanor, feeling the pulsating heat closing around her, moist and inviting, and she circled the sensitive clitoris with her thumb, drawing circles that made Eleanor gasp, her moans a contrast to Anne's deeper growls, a duet of pleasure that filled the chamber. The air was heavy with her scent, their hips circled in unison, pressing together, sweat beading on their skin, mingling with the moisture between their thighs. Desire had seized them, an untamed fire that didn't destroy but united—Anne's free hand clung to Eleanor's back, nails digging lightly, while Eleanor's lips sought Anne's neck, sucking, gently biting, and the climax built, a chorus of spasms and sighs. Anne came first, a cry stifled by a kiss, her body trembling, waves of release flooding through her, carrying Eleanor away, her fingers tightening until she too broke, a soft, trembling whimper that died in Anne's mouth. They merged in that moment, bodies and souls a whirl of flesh and desire, their touches not demanding but adoring, an erotic experience that left them both breathless and fulfilled, the outside world forgotten in the embrace of the night.

Afterwards, they lay together, naked on an old sheet that Eleanor had hastily spread over the straw mattress, their bodies entwined, sweat and tenderness a warm film on their skin. The lantern flickered dimly, casting golden reflections on their limbs, and the silence was peaceful, broken only by the distant murmur of the harbor. After some time, when her breathing became calmer and the heat subsided, Anne turned to Eleanor, her fingers brushing her cheek, and the words burst from her, a whisper that sounded like a confession: “I… I killed him. James. He didn’t protect me when those swine… in the tavern. They… and he watched, nodding like it was nothing. I stabbed him with a bottle, and then… the fire. The tavern burned down, with him inside. I’m a murderer, Eleanor. A fugitive.” The tears came now, hot and unstoppable, and she waited for the disgust, the flight, but Eleanor only drew her closer, kissing her forehead, her eyes. “Shh, love. You did what you had to do. You’re safe here. No one will find you.” Her words were a promise, firm as an anchor, and Anne nodded, exhausted, the burden growing lighter. Together they sank into sleep, arms entwined.

[Shocker]

A very strong start into an exciting story, I just wonder why the name Anne Bonney keeps popping up in my mind.

[HBK]

A very strong start into an exciting story, I just wonder why the name Anne Bonney keeps popping up in my mind.

And Clara Paget is buzzing around in my head.

Interesting story, and it seems you're also taking some inspiration from Black Sails; thank you for adding a scene with Anne and Eleanor.

[LaLia]

A very strong start into an exciting story, I just wonder why the name Anne Bonney keeps popping up in my mind.

Wait, please? You're wondering why the name Anne Bonny comes to your mind? Her name appears in the story. I'm confused.

A very strong start into an exciting story, I just wonder why the name Anne Bonney keeps popping up in my mind.

And Clara Paget is buzzing around in my head.

Interesting story, and it seems you're also taking some inspiration from Black Sails; thank you for adding a scene with Anne and Eleanor.

I think Clara Paget played the role very well, and a scene with Anne and Eleanor was simply a must.

I'll stick to the series as well as the original facts. So far, we're still before the events of the TV series.

[LaLia]

A new life as a pirate

Once Anne had regained her strength—the days spent in Eleanor's chamber had healed her wounds, replenished her strength, and rekindled her fire—she worked as a messenger for Eleanor. She delivered bills of lading to the harbor, where ships lay at anchor like hungry giants, or distributed wages to dockworkers who, with calloused hands, took the coins and eyed them suspiciously. Eleanor's father knew nothing of this; Richard Guthrie, the pragmatic merchant with the sharp mind, had already assigned his daughter many tasks, but he was increasingly displeased that she not only worked with the pirates but also found their lifestyle quite appealing—the wild nights, the tales of the open sea, the freedom beyond the law. Richard, on the other hand, was pragmatic: the pirates were good business, a necessary evil that brought gold into his coffers, but they remained the underclass, crude and untamed, no company for a lady like Eleanor.


Anne soon met some of them, encountering them at the harbor or accompanying Eleanor on a trade—hidden meetings in warehouses where barrels of gunpowder and rum were exchanged for stolen silk and spices. There was Benjamin Hornigold, who commanded the fortress for the defense of New Providence, a weather-beaten man with a beard like a storm sail, one of the most experienced pirates of the time, who barked orders with quiet authority. Then there was Captain Flint, formerly a British Navy officer turned pirate, his eyes hard as steel, tales of betrayal and lost treasure in every glance. Or Henry Jennings, also a great captain, with a laugh that echoed like cannon fire and schemes that made the Caribbean tremble. Anne listened, absorbing the words like salt air, and a longing for more grew within her—the taste of adventure was both sweet and dangerous, yet she also longed to board one of those ships, to attack merchant vessels, hoist the sails, and breathe the winds of freedom. A woman on a pirate ship? Until then, that was unthinkable, a curse that brought bad luck, the men said, and Anne gritted her teeth, clenching her fists.

But her freedom was to be threatened when, after a few weeks, the story of the fire began to circulate—rumors crawled through the taverns like rats through the alleys, carried by fishermen and traders coming from Culverts Bay. They were searching for her, the red-haired Irishwoman who had killed her husband and set the tavern ablaze. Eleanor had first heard it, in a conversation with a captain, and told Anne, her voice low and worried in the cabin: “They’re whispering your name, Anne. Be careful.” A deep and intimate friendship had developed between the two, not love in the full sense, yet they shared a bed several times, experiencing passionate nights in which their bodies sought each other, their touches a solace in the wilds of Nassau. At the same time, Eleanor was also secretly meeting, hidden from her father, with a young pirate named Charles Vane—a secret Anne accepted without jealousy, for their crew was different, there was no envy, no resentment.

Then one morning, after Anne had been in Nassau for several weeks, riders from the Underhill Plantation appeared, looking for her. The sun beat down on the harbor, where ships creaked and waves crashed against the pilings, and the men—eight burly fellows with whips and pistols, their faces weathered by the sun—rode through the streets, asking for the redhead. The plantations in the north often enforced the law, their owners like petty kings, and it was clear why they were looking for Anne: murder and arson, an affront to their world of order and slavery. They found her on the beach, where Anne was delivering a letter, and surrounded her like wolves around a lamb. “For killing your husband, you’ll be hanged!” one said, his grin slimy, as two others grabbed her roughly, twisted her arms, and dragged her across the ground, the sand biting into her skin. “But first we should fuck her good, shouldn’t we?” another shouted, and they all laughed, a raw, animalistic roar that made Anne’s blood boil.

She was dragged into one of the dark alleys, away from the beach lights and toward the harbor, where the stench of garbage and salt hung heavy. Anne fought back, kicking and biting, screaming for help, her voice a cry in the midday heat, but none of the dockworkers dared to intervene—they looked away, afraid of the plantation whips. She felt their dirty hands everywhere: on her bottom, where fingers dug; on her breasts, which they kneaded like dough; between her legs, where rough touches were meant to humiliate her. “The little one needs it good and hard in the ass,” she heard a voice say as she was roughly pushed over some old barrels, her skirt hiked up, the wooden rim digging into her stomach. Anne took a deep breath, closed her eyes for a moment—it wasn't the first time, and she wouldn't break down, she vowed. Even if they raped her, even all eight of them, she would only rise stronger afterward, the fire within her undiminished.

Suddenly, however, a voice cut through the men's jeers. "Eight men against one woman? Cowards!" Anne managed to turn her head slightly and saw Charles Vane, tall and broad, with a saber at his belt, and beside him a man she recognized instantly, even though she hadn't seen him before. His clothing gave him away—colorful calico fabrics, a hat with feathers: Calico Jack Rackham! The plantation workers flinched when they, too, recognized the two men. Charles was captain of the Lark, a ship belonging to Blackbeard's fleet, which had been at sea for several months, and Jack was the Lark's quartermaster, a close friend of Charles's, known for his wit and his sword. The men of the Underhill Plantation stammered that Anne was a wanted murderer and had been arrested, their hands still on her body.


Charles just laughed, a booming, contemptuous laugh that filled the alley. “You’re in Nassau, you idiots. The plantation owners have no power here—this is our territory. Anne stays here.”

A confrontation ensued, the air crackling with violence. One man held Anne down, his fingers like vises, while the other seven advanced on Charles and Jack, fists clenched, knives drawn. Escalation was palpable; words flew like sparks—curses, threats, the clash of steel—but the plantation workers were divided. They knew about Charles’s position, about Blackbeard’s shadow hanging over Nassau. Others, however, seemed indifferent, driven on by alcohol and hatred.

But then Anne made the first move. With a sudden jerk, she pushed free, her elbows slamming into the guard's ribs. In a swift movement, she had wrested the knife from his guard, the blade flashing in the sun, and plunged it deep into his stomach. A gurgle escaped him as he collapsed. A second followed, Anne furious, a whirl of red and steel as she charged at the men, the blade slashing down, slicing into flesh. A third punched her in the face, a hard blow that made stars explode. She fell to the ground, spitting blood, the metallic taste lingering on her tongue, yet she rose again, unsteady but undefeated.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jack and Charles draw their sabers, blades singing through the air. Charles was considered a skilled fighter, his movements precise and swift, a dance of death that left the plantation men no chance. Jack killed one, piercing through with his blade; Charles killed four, with blows that struck like lightning; and Anne also killed the one who had knocked her to the ground – a thrust to the throat, his blood spurting across the sand.

Jack offered her his hand, helped her to her feet, and gave a mocking curtsey, his smile charming and cheeky. "Nice to meet you, Jack—Calico Jack Rackham is my name." Anne spat out more blood and cursed, "Fucking bastards, who fucked whom now?" Charles laughed, a hearty, booming laugh. "Irish fire, just like Eleanor said."

With that, they left the harbor, leaving the bodies for the seagulls, and met up with Eleanor at a hidden camp, where they told her everything—the ambush, the fight, the blood. Eleanor's eyes widened, but she nodded, her hand on Anne's shoulder, a bond of strength.

This would mark a turning point in Anne's life. In the following days and weeks, she spent much time with Charles and Jack, drinking rum with the men in the smoky taverns of Nassau, where the air was thick with tobacco and salt and tales of pillaging washed ashore like waves. She told them her life story—of Ireland, her strict father, her escape with James, the tavern that went up in flames, and the men who had broken her, only to break themselves. Her words flowed like the rum, bitter and fiery, and the men listened, nodding in appreciation, their eyes shining in the candlelight. She seemed particularly taken with Jack; Calico Jack Rackham, with his charming grin and eyes that sparkled like the horizon, laughed at her jokes, toasted her, and occasionally touched her arm, a touch that sent warmth without demanding anything in return. Charles was the tougher one, the leader, yet even he appreciated her fire, calling her "the Irish flame," and on those nights Anne felt truly alive, as if the sea were calling her.

After some time, Charles had initially been against it—"A woman at sea? That'll end in chaos"—but Jack had persuaded him, with arguments and a twinkle in his eye, and even helped Anne on the Lark. Initially disguised as a man, her breasts hidden under a loose shirt, her hair concealed under a sarong, she worked on deck, hoisting sails and learning the knots that held the ship together. The Lark, a fast sloop with cannons that gleamed like teeth, was Blackbeard's shadow, and the crew a band of outlaws, tough as the sea. But Anne's disguise was quickly blown when a bucket of water—accidentally knocked over in a storm—soaked her clothes and revealed her femininity: the curves that couldn't be hidden, the wet strands of hair that came loose. “A woman on board? That brings bad luck!” shouted an older sailor, his face scarred and contorted with superstition. Several men demanded that Charles throw her overboard, their voices a chorus of discontent, fists clenched, eyes suspicious. But Jack intervened, confronting the ringleader, a burly man who had seen his fair share of battles: “Then you throw her overboard, if you can manage it. If not, you leave the Lark!”

The duel between the man everyone called Kirk—a colossus with scars like maps and arms like anchor chains—and Anne erupted on the swaying deck, the crew in a circle, the waves as witnesses. Kirk laughed boomingly, easily grabbing Anne, his hands around her waist, lifting her up as if she were a sack of flour, but she fought back fiercely, kicking at him, her boots striking his knee, biting his arm until blood flowed and he cursed. His blows came hard—a fist to her stomach that squeezed the air from her, a slap that made the stars dance—and she went down, the planks hard beneath her, but rose again, gasping, blood in her mouth like fire. Once, twice, a third time—each fall a climb, her eyes blazing, the crew murmuring, the first now cheering Anne on, their cries like wind in the sails. She used her speed now, dodging his blows, dancing around him like a shadow, climbing into the rigging, the ropes creaking under her weight. He followed her, heavy, panting, his bulk a disadvantage at that height, and just as he thought he was about to grab her, reaching out his hand, the trap snapped shut. Anne dodged, the rope she had grabbed wrapping around his foot—a clever knot she had learned—and with the other end, she let herself slide down, a controlled fall. She landed on the deck, bleeding and with several painful bruises, her ribs throbbing, but she stood while Kirk hung upside down, defeated and beaten by a woman, his curses stifled by the wind.

From that day on, Anne's appearance changed once again. The long brown leather coat she had taken from Kirk as a trophy—heavy and worn, but warm against the sea—became her trademark, as did an old, rather oversized hat she found at the harbor, which she usually pulled low over her face to cast a shadow. A pistol, a saber, and, most importantly, two cutlasses, ready for close combat, hung from her belt. The story was no longer a secret in the alley; "Mess with Anne Bonny and you'll feel her knives," some of the pirates whispered in the taverns, with a mixture of fear and admiration, and Anne smiled inwardly, her stride more confident, her demeanor more assured.

While Anne had now earned the trust and respect of the pirates, Eleanor had met with Mr. Underhill. Underhill, even richer and more influential than the Guthries, with plantations that grew like empires, depended on trade—the smuggling, the rum, the goods that flowed through Nassau's veins. He could forget about a murderess and arsonist for that price, and for a barrel of expensive wine—red and heavy, from Spanish cellars—Underhill agreed that he and his men would no longer pursue Anne. Since Eleanor had also brought him eight new workers, strong arms from the slums, the incident at the harbor was also resolved, a deal that washed blood with gold.

The pirate stronghold on New Providence Island flourished, a seething cauldron of gold, rum, and lawlessness, and at its heart was young Anne Bonny, her fire burning brightly. She spent her days on the Lark, training with Charles in swordsmanship and hand-to-hand combat, and her nights in Nassau's taverns.

And then finally, a few weeks later: The sea was a living beast when Anne Bonny experienced her first plunder—a moment that definitively catapulted her into the world of pirates, where the salt burned her skin and the wind screamed freedom. It was a hazy autumn morning, the Lark gliding like a shadow through the turquoise waters of the Bahamas, her sails billowing in the northeast trade winds that carried her south of Nassau. Charles Vane, the captain, had gotten wind of a Spanish merchant ship—a fat galleon called the Santa Maria, laden with sugar, tobacco, and gold from Havana, bound for Charleston. “That’s our catch, boys!” he had roared, and the crew, a dozen tough guys, had cheered, sharpening their cutlasses. Anne, now firmly in her new outfit—leather coat over shirt, hat pulled low over her face, cutlass at her belt—stood at the bow, her heart pounding with excitement and fear. Jack had smiled at her, a twinkle in his eye: “Show them your fire, Anne.”

The Lark was fast, a wolf among sheep, and when the Santa Maria appeared on the horizon—a lumbering ship with high superstructures and full sails—Charles gave the order. “Cannons ready! Grappling hooks at the ready!” The crew fired a volley, the cannonballs whizzing through the air, tearing holes in the galleon’s sails, and shouts echoing across the water. Anne felt the recoil of the cannon in her bones as she helped reload the guns—powder, ball, plunger—her hands black with smoke. The Spaniards returned fire, a cannonball grazed the deck, splinters flew, and a man beside her fell, bleeding. But the Lark was closer, grappling hooks flew like gossamer threads, caught fast, and the pirates swung across, a storm of steel and roars.

Anne was one of the first to jump—her coat flapping, her knives drawn. She landed on the deck of the Santa Maria, where Spanish sailors waited with sabers, their faces contorted with fear. “By God!” one shouted, and Anne charged forward, parrying a blow, her cutlass clanging against steel. She was quick, ducking under a blow, thrusting—the blade pierced a man’s thigh, he fell screaming. Blood spurted, warm on her skin, and the adrenaline rush made her invincible. Jack was at her side, his saber a whirl that felled two Spaniards, and Charles bellowed orders: “Take the cargo! No mercy!” Anne fought her way to the quarterdeck, where the captain stood, a fat man in a wig, firing a pistol—the bullet whizzed past her ear, and she leaped forward, rammed her elbow into his throat, and wrested the weapon from him. “The ship is ours!” she cried, her voice a thunderclap above the chaos.

The looting was a frenzy: The crew ransacked the holds, dragging crates of gold coins, sacks of sugar, barrels of rum. Anne helped hoist the spoils onto the Lark using ropes, her laughter wild as she disarmed a Spaniard and threw him overboard. The prisoners knelt on deck, begging for mercy, and Charles let them live—“Let them drift, let them tell their tales of us!”—but Anne felt the power, the adrenaline pumping through her veins. As the Lark turned away, leaving the Santa Maria a wreck, she stood at the stern, the wind in her hair, and knew: This was the beginning. Her first blood, her first treasure—and the whole world would hear of the woman who conquered the seas.

[Shocker]

A very strong start into an exciting story, I just wonder why the name Anne Bonney keeps popping up in my mind.

Wait, please? You're wondering why the name Anne Bonny comes to your mind? Her name appears in the story. I'm confused.

A very strong start into an exciting story, I just wonder why the name Anne Bonney keeps popping up in my mind.

And Clara Paget is buzzing around in my head.

Interesting story, and it seems you're also taking some inspiration from Black Sails; thank you for adding a scene with Anne and Eleanor.

I think Clara Paget played the role very well, and a scene with Anne and Eleanor was simply a must.

I'll stick to the series as well as the original facts. So far, we're still before the events of the TV series.

And now you know which line of your story I had just skimmed over . Honestly I had missed the last name and only read the Anne part.