Death Rides a Quarter Horse

The scorching sun wasn’t the only thing James was escaping as he sat with his back against a pear tree, his body leaking from two fresh holes. The first shot had gone clean through his right shoulder. The second musket ball had made a home somewhere in his torso. That was the one, James feared, that would do him in. His days, more likely hours, were numbered regardless. If it wasn't the blood loss, 'twould be the hangman sending James Evans, not yet 30, to the cold grave.

The Royal Oak bit at the heels of the Revenge for almost two days. The smaller vessel would have outmaneuvered her pursuer had it not been for a well-aimed chain shot that ripped through the center of the mainsail. Gulls soared overhead as grappling hooks dragged the Revenge into the Royal Oak’s icy grip.

As the rogues abandoned ship, James dove into a small row boat, hacked the line with his sword, and plummeted off the ship before slamming into the unforgiving waves of the Atlantic.

Now, as James sat beneath this bountiful pear tree, he reckoned it was less than an hour before the troops caught up with him. It was curious to see a pear tree out here in this forest. Like James, they were not at all native to the colonies, and so he decided he must be close to a homestead. How long had he been running since his dingy found a shore? James retraced his steps in his mind. This must be the one...

The troops may have a tracker, possibly hounds. During his flight from shore, James pressed his wounds with a torn piece of tunic, but he knew blood glistened this forest floor like a trail of breadcrumbs.

James took an inventory. Two pistols, about a dozen shots and some flint in his pouch, his sword, a map, and the letter from his beloved Mary. James looked at his crumpled map, now stained with his blood. James saw a rainbow of colors when he stood up to snag a pear off a branch but he managed to sit down before fainting. He cracked into the pear and savored the sweet flesh which satiated his appetite and quenched his thirst. James drew a deep breath.

As the smoke cleared, and the crew of the Revenge lay dead or in shackles, Captain Blackington took a headcount. He knew exactly who manned the Revenge and he was not leaving James Evans unaccounted for. Evans had been a useful asset to the British Navy until he wasn’t. A successful and feared privateer, Evans led many a mission seizing, plundering, or sinking Spanish galleys up and down the east coast of the New World. Never a captain himself, an offer he had turned down more than once, Evans had been a highly sought after first lieutenant.

Though a hail of gunfire came from the deck of the Royal Oak toward that old dingy, Captain Blackington was certain it was his own musket shot that rang true and hit Evans in the small of his back. It was two years now since the captain had been betrayed, not once but twice, by Evans. Evans taking up arms with Stede Bonnet and the colonial rebels was a known fact from Barbados to London. It was the second betrayal, the subject of rumors swirling around his own galley, that caused Blackington to lay awake staring at the ceiling of his quarters night after night. The truth that haunted and rotted him was that his wife Mary had found a love truer than their own in the arms of James Evans. Now the traitor had two shots in him. Blackington sneered to himself as he marched through the forest men and dogs. One round for each betrayal.

The bark of a hound roused James awake. He had passed out, a gun in each hand. James heard another bark and then voices. He strained his back against the tree to stand and collapsed right back down in a heap. Slowly, he returned to his sitting position, held both pistols on his thighs and pointed them straight ahead. James cocked the hammers of each pistol with his remaining grains of strength. He looked at the sun then at his letter next to the core of his pear. Mary, I can feel you near.

James squinted as he saw the figures approach. Now the hounds were barking relentlessly. He recognized who the hat, the tall, broad build, and the gleam of buckles belonged to immediately. Thirty feet from him was his old friend turned enemy, a privateer captain turned Navy officer. As Blackington’s firm resolve for the British Empire hardened, Evans, an American himself, found himself drawn further to the cause of American independence. It was Mary, also an American, who had Evans convinced to resist the heel of the British Empire by taking action.

Blackington hollered to Evans to drop his arms. With two muskets pointing at him, James knew the chase was finished. Blackington wanted Evans dead, but not before keeping him alive to make an example of him. Evans smiled as he looked at the sun. He had bought himself enough time, and his love was never late. The plan was always to lure Blackington to this pear tree, but not by himself, with his crew killed and captured, and he himself clinging onto life.

With his two men and snarling hounds, Blackington warily approached the crumpled Evans. As he drew closer, and his bloodlust grew stronger, he decided Evans was not a prize he would give the hangman. As soon as Blackington unsheathed his sword, four cracks rang out and echoed through the forest, scattering sparrows into the sky. His men groaned and collapsed as the dogs yelped and fled through the forest. The captain’s face was drained of all color when Mary Blackington rode out of the thicket in a hooded cloak, clutching a smoking musket and flanked by three of her best sharpshooters. Mary dismounted her horse and stood next to James, holding her still smoking musket in a defensive stance.

The captain raised his sword and sprinted toward the rebels, his face twisted in rage and fear. He looked directly into Evans’ eyes. In that moment, though no words were spoken out loud, Evans’ eyes said it all. A fitting end for both of us. And Blackington had to agree as Evans unloaded both of his pistols into his uniformed chest. The caw-caw-caw resounded from a nearby crow, and Blackington’s eyes locked vacantly on a pine tree. He was released now of the rage that held him for these long two years. A peace washed over his face as he exhaled his last breath.

Mary held James’ head in her arms as he himself slipped away, joining his friend turned adversary for eternity. Mary closed her eyes tightly. She would grieve, but now was not the time. The cause required her to swiftly escape and plan her next mission to free the seas of tyranny. The cause needed her alive.