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The Port of Nassau, July 1713
Feb. 4th, 2018 01:22 pmThe Port of Nassau on New Providence Island was a kind of heaven.
No one felt Nassau, that little piece of the Bahamas, was theirs, so to speak. The people who roamed these seas, people who Edward saw increasingly as his own - they didn't think that 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 pirates and privateers discharged their 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 vessels enjoyed shelter from the elements and from their 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.
It was a place of peace for Edward. After the year-and-change he'd had under Dolzell's command, with Blaney making his life miserable, it had seemed as if he'd made a misjudgment, longing for the sea for so long. But under Edward Thatch's command, he'd flourished.
Blackbeard liked him; he called Edward a scrapper, liked having him around. Over the past few months, he'd taught Edward no small amount of tricks in the arts of using swords and pistols. For possibly the first time since Fandom, Edward found himself liking his life - liking it very much.
He was sailing with Thatch in July 1713 when the quartermaster was killed on a trip ashore. Two weeks after that, they received a message and Edward was called to the captain’s quarters.
“Can you read, son?”
“Yes, sir,” Edward said, and he thought briefly of Rapunzel, of Cosette. Where might they be now - somewhere in their kingdoms, perhaps France, or still on that time-lost island in strange waters?
Thatch sat at one side of his navigation table rather than behind it. His legs were crossed and he wore long black boots, a red sash at his waist and four pistols in a thick leather shoulder belt. Maps and charts were laid out beside him but something told Edward it wasn’t those he needed reading.
“I need a new quartermaster,” he said.
“Oh, sir, I don’t think..."
He roared with laughter, slapped his thighs. “No, son, I don’t ‘think’ either. You’re too young, and you don’t have the experience to be a quartermaster. Isn’t that right?”
Edward looked at his boots.
“Come here,” he said, “and read this.”
Edward did as he was asked, reading aloud a short communication with news of a treaty between the English, the Spanish, Portuguese...
“Does it mean . . . ?” Edward said, when he had finished.
“Indeed it does, Edward,” he said (and it was the first time he’d ever called Edward by his name rather than “son” or “lad"). “It means your Captain Alexander Dolzell was right, and that the days of privateers filling their boots are over. I’ll be making an announcement to the crew later. Will you follow me yourself?”
Edward would have followed him to the ends of the Earth but he didn’t say so. Just nodded, as though he had a lot of options.
Thatch looked at Edward. All that black hair and beard lent his eyes an extra penetrating shine. “You will be a pirate, Edward, a wanted man. Are you sure you want that?”
Honest truth, Edward didn't want to. He had hoped to become a man of quality, not an outlaw.
But he had nowhere else to go; there was no returning to Bristol for him without a pot of gold, not after all the bridges that had burned in those last few weeks back home.
He said nothing.
“We shall set sail for Nassau,” said Thatch. “We pledged to meet Benjamin should this ever happen. I dare say we shall join forces, for we’ll both lose crew in the wake of this announcement.
“I’d like you by my side, Edward. You’ve got courage and heart and skill in battle, and I can always use a man with letters."
At least that was flattering.
After a moment, Edward nodded.
He kept his face straight until he got back to his hammock. But then he found himself squeezing his eyes shut, attempting to vanquish the onset of tears.
He'd always thought he was meant for something better. To become someone of quality, with honour, the right way. For years he'd fought against the assumption that because he was a sheep farmer's son, he was doomed to stay a sheep farmer's son: that there was no honest way a man could claw his way up, regardless of quality.
But as it turned out, the naysayers had been right.
There was no honest way.
He would never be a man of quality. The best he could hope for was to become a man of means.
He sucked in a shallow breath. No, this was the way it'd have to be.
And from that moment on, Edward Kenway was a pirate.
[[ taken and adapted from the Assassin's Creed: Black Flag novelization. ]]
No one felt Nassau, that little piece of the Bahamas, was theirs, so to speak. The people who roamed these seas, people who Edward saw increasingly as his own - they didn't think that 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 pirates and privateers discharged their 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 vessels enjoyed shelter from the elements and from their 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.
It was a place of peace for Edward. After the year-and-change he'd had under Dolzell's command, with Blaney making his life miserable, it had seemed as if he'd made a misjudgment, longing for the sea for so long. But under Edward Thatch's command, he'd flourished.
Blackbeard liked him; he called Edward a scrapper, liked having him around. Over the past few months, he'd taught Edward no small amount of tricks in the arts of using swords and pistols. For possibly the first time since Fandom, Edward found himself liking his life - liking it very much.
He was sailing with Thatch in July 1713 when the quartermaster was killed on a trip ashore. Two weeks after that, they received a message and Edward was called to the captain’s quarters.
“Can you read, son?”
“Yes, sir,” Edward said, and he thought briefly of Rapunzel, of Cosette. Where might they be now - somewhere in their kingdoms, perhaps France, or still on that time-lost island in strange waters?
Thatch sat at one side of his navigation table rather than behind it. His legs were crossed and he wore long black boots, a red sash at his waist and four pistols in a thick leather shoulder belt. Maps and charts were laid out beside him but something told Edward it wasn’t those he needed reading.
“I need a new quartermaster,” he said.
“Oh, sir, I don’t think..."
He roared with laughter, slapped his thighs. “No, son, I don’t ‘think’ either. You’re too young, and you don’t have the experience to be a quartermaster. Isn’t that right?”
Edward looked at his boots.
“Come here,” he said, “and read this.”
Edward did as he was asked, reading aloud a short communication with news of a treaty between the English, the Spanish, Portuguese...
“Does it mean . . . ?” Edward said, when he had finished.
“Indeed it does, Edward,” he said (and it was the first time he’d ever called Edward by his name rather than “son” or “lad"). “It means your Captain Alexander Dolzell was right, and that the days of privateers filling their boots are over. I’ll be making an announcement to the crew later. Will you follow me yourself?”
Edward would have followed him to the ends of the Earth but he didn’t say so. Just nodded, as though he had a lot of options.
Thatch looked at Edward. All that black hair and beard lent his eyes an extra penetrating shine. “You will be a pirate, Edward, a wanted man. Are you sure you want that?”
Honest truth, Edward didn't want to. He had hoped to become a man of quality, not an outlaw.
But he had nowhere else to go; there was no returning to Bristol for him without a pot of gold, not after all the bridges that had burned in those last few weeks back home.
He said nothing.
“We shall set sail for Nassau,” said Thatch. “We pledged to meet Benjamin should this ever happen. I dare say we shall join forces, for we’ll both lose crew in the wake of this announcement.
“I’d like you by my side, Edward. You’ve got courage and heart and skill in battle, and I can always use a man with letters."
At least that was flattering.
After a moment, Edward nodded.
He kept his face straight until he got back to his hammock. But then he found himself squeezing his eyes shut, attempting to vanquish the onset of tears.
He'd always thought he was meant for something better. To become someone of quality, with honour, the right way. For years he'd fought against the assumption that because he was a sheep farmer's son, he was doomed to stay a sheep farmer's son: that there was no honest way a man could claw his way up, regardless of quality.
But as it turned out, the naysayers had been right.
There was no honest way.
He would never be a man of quality. The best he could hope for was to become a man of means.
He sucked in a shallow breath. No, this was the way it'd have to be.
And from that moment on, Edward Kenway was a pirate.
[[ taken and adapted from the Assassin's Creed: Black Flag novelization. ]]
