Chapter Text
They were somewhere outside Nassau, on the edge of the deep, when the drugs began to take hold.
Drugs? Yes. Ed had picked up the habit some years ago in Singapore. (His first score was free, two years after he’d killed his father, given to him as a birthday gift from a friendly, gap-toothed madam in a brothel called Shiny’s.) Now, he sprawled back in his straight-backed captain’s chair, leather boots propped up on the wide table, letting the smoke curl up into the rafters. He’d had a glass of whiskey nearby, he was pretty sure, but it was gone now.
Outside, he could hear the battle coming to an end.
Shortly after leaving Barbados, he’d angled for the biggest score they could find - a French man-o’-war, down on its luck after a bad run-in with an English frigate, hastening back to Martinique with half a dozen holes in the hull. He’d hoped for a real fight, but it was like shooting fish in a barrel. Sailing under that Blackbeard flag, armed to the fuckin’ gills, and with the assistance of a little smoke and fuckery, his crew were a sight to fuckin’ behold. The French put up a piss-poor resistance. A few daggers in the eyeball, a few maimings here, a few kneecaps there, and the fight was practically over before it began.
It was the same old shit. He figured he could head back to The Revenge for a backstage nightcap while the boys wrapped it up. Someone would come and get him for showtime.
How long had it been? He barely heard the knock at the door. He almost didn’t even register Izzy coming in.
“Captain?” That fuckin’ voice. Izzy was holding a clipboard - a ship’s manifest, looked like. He had a smear of blood over one eye, but didn’t look any worse for wear. With the door open, it was clear the clamor of battle had quieted down; there was only the odd groan, the occasional muffled curse, the smell of gunpowder, and the crackle of fire across the rocking waves. “It’s over. They’re ready for you.”
Ed said nothing, but exhaled a long plume up into the chandelier.
“Sir,” Izzy tried again. “We need you on stage. It’s showtime.”
He sighed. “Showtime, eh? All right, then. Let’s give ‘em what they came for.” He stood, allowing himself a few seconds’ grace period for the cabin to stop spinning. He blinked, then spat. His breath tasted foul. God, he was sick.
Izzy frowned. “You still here, Captain?” Then, a moment later - lower, almost under his breath, edged with suspicion: “Blackbeard?”
Yes, it was time for Blackbeard, wasn’t it? Fine. Fine. Fuckin’ fine.
Ed stepped aside. Blackbeard stomped forward gracelessly, shoving Izzy up against the doorframe on his way through. “Don’t you ever fuckin’ forget it, mate. Or do you want toes for the afterparty?”
Izzy grinned. “There you are. Right this way, Captain.”
When Blackbeard came through the cabin door out onto the deck, he was like a goddamn rockstar. The men threw up a great cheer - “There he is!” “The man of the hour!” “Genius on deck!” Several of the French sailors did, too - they’d already thrown down their uniforms and were clearly in the process of volunteering - a few of them already queuing up to shake his hand. On the other side of the deck, Ivan and Fang had the few straggler loyalists under control already, tying their hands and herding them downstairs to the brig.
“Hey, guys, I’m Blackbeard!” Cheers in response - of course. “Thanks for coming out tonight!” Whoops and applause. “You’ve been a fine crowd, and don’t forget to tip your servers.” The joke landed as well as it always did - hearty laughs all around. He stalked down the row of well-wishers, ragtags and pirates and deserters all, shaking hands and signing autographs. He didn’t know how to write, of course, but a smear of pitch and a trusty X on a bit of sail did beautifully for these chaps.
At last, he reached the end of the row and set eyes on the real prize: the French naval captain himself. He was young - couldn’t have been more than thirty. He’d been robbed of hat and jacket and knelt bareheaded in the breeze, his hands wrestled and tied behind the mast. Some kind of injury oozed blood down his shoulder, but he hadn’t been stabbed or shot; he looked well enough, all right. Weirdly, he didn’t seem that upset.
“Oi, hello, mate, I’m Blackbeard,” he said again, pitching his voice loud enough for the crew to hear. “Who might you be?”
“My name is Captain Jacque Bergeret,” he replied in crisp, accented English, “captain of The Achéron , headed for Martinique.”
“Well, Captain Bergeret, you’re in a bit of a pickle now, mate.” The men all laughed, right on cue. “What’ll it be? Surrender or death?” Blackbeard grinned, leaned in close, letting a little madness slip through the cracks. “Surrender, you’ll be trussed up as a hostage and sold to the highest bidder. We haven’t got too many friends at the Republic anymore, but I’m sure we can fetch a fine price for you among the French pirates in Tortuga.” He winked. More laughter.
Bergeret said nothing.
“Death, we’ll walk you off the plank. You’ll be dead, but at least you won’t be selling out your crown, and you’ll avoid a nasty end in Tortuga. What’ll it be?”
Bergeret cocked his head, observing him for a moment. “I have a third suggestion, mon Capitan ,” he said. “I propose a deal.”
Blackbeard raised an eyebrow. He needed to think. This was a moment for a little showmanship: he produced a dagger from a hidden hip pocket, twirling it between his fingers, letting it drag effortlessly across the French captain’s shirt, letting a few drops of blood well up.
Bergeret ignored this. Huh - apparently he was stronger and calmer than Blackbeard had expected. Perhaps he really was a worthy adversary; maybe Blackbeard would get something out of this stupid night after all.
“What sort of deal?”
Bergeret gestured with one shoulder toward the east. “There, back toward Barbados. We have a common enemy. I can help you take care of it.”
“I got a lot of enemies,” Blackbeard shrugged. “And I work alone. You’re gonna have to be more specific, man.” He flicked the knife-edge for creative emphasis.
Bergeret sighed. Was that a flicker of impatience in his eyes?
“You appealed to the British Crown. A number of English commodores and captains stood to gain greatly by your appeal. Yet in just one night, you killed Captain Badminton and vanished from imprisonment. They know you could not have got far; they want to bring you in, dead or alive.” He cocked his head, meeting Blackbeard’s eyes. “Nothing would please my superiors more than The Achéron taking down a British warship. If I must forge a détente with the fearsome pirate captain Blackbeard to do this, so be it.”
Blackbeard stared - and inside of him, Ed stumbled forward through the curtains.
The mast creaked in the wind. The waves lapped against the ship. All around him, dozens of men held their breath, waiting for his response.
Stupidly, he could only respond: “Chauncey Badminton?”
“That was your takeaway?” This time, Bergeret really did sigh with annoyance. “Yes, yes, yes. The British captain you killed at the beach. It happened in the dead of night, they say; word on the street is that you killed him to make your escape. Is that not so?”
Time slowed and spun lazily in circles. Blackbeard was fully leaving the stage. Ed was forcing his way into the spotlight. Fuck. Fuck!
Was that where Stede had gone? Had Stede been on his way to the beach at that very moment, only to be surprised in the dark by Badminton? Why hadn’t Ed remembered that Badminton was on the island, too? That idiot been desperate to kill Stede - so desperate a dozen of his own men had had to hold him back. Ed could easily see him biding his time, waiting for his moment, waiting to get Stede alone. Had he followed him down from the cabins?
Why hadn’t Ed thought to check?
“What about Stede?” Ed said without thinking.
He knew it was a mistake the moment he said it. Izzy’s scoff was audible. His own men murmured in concern and alarm. The French sailors mumbled to each other in confusion. In front of him, Bergeret looked faintly, politely puzzled.
“Stede?” Then, the light came on: “Oh, oui . Yes. Stede Bonnet.” He said the surname like a French word, pronouncing it Bon-nay . “The - what do you call him? - the Gentleman Pirate?” He shrugged. “He is dead.”
“Dead? What? What do you mean?” Ed was blundering too far forward now, about to pitch off the front of the stage and fall into the audience altogether. Blackbeard was offstage completely. On the ship, Izzy was coming forward, muscling his way through the men, already drawing his blade from its sheath.
“Everyone heard about it,” said Bergeret. “He died. Not sure how - I heard a dozen stories, all less believable than the last. There was a funeral in Barbados. I think we all knew that wasn’t going to last long.” He shrugged again. “Why, did you know him?”
Time slowed, then stopped together.
Blackbeard surged forward so fast, Ed barely had the chance to blink and step out of the way. He didn’t even realize he was going to sink a dagger into the man’s stomach until he’d already done it. He stepped back, noting with a critic’s eye that the dagger had gone in on the lower left and missed most of the interior organs.
Bergeret cried out once, then paled and looked down. “You fucking stabbed me! You lunatic!”
Blackbeard nodded, chest heaving, breathing hard. “I did, and I’ll stab every fucking one of ya if I need to,” he snarled. The men all gasped, a mix of horror and revulsion and appreciation and hero-worship crashing like a wave among the crowd. Izzy released his own blade and melted back into the shadows, approval shining in his eyes.
Ed had faded away. Blackbeard was now fully in control. He stepped backward across the boards, letting Bergeret slump forward, gasping against his bindings. Louder, to the whole crew, he called: “We will untie this man and patch him up. But let it be known: you all work for me now.”
Ed was nowhere to be seen as Blackbeard took his place at center stage on the deck, turning in a slow circle for all to see. “The French guys in the brig will be sold in Tortuga,” he roared. “Any man who stays on my ship after that will join us as we take the fight to the British navy!”
The cheers were fucking resounding.