through the inlets. Discerning the depth of the water was more challenging. Many times Warren had negotiated unfamiliar shorelines by looking at the behavior of the surface. Steeper, more tightly spaced waves indicated shallower water. Subtler, more widely separated waves suggested somewhat greater depths.
The water beneath the keel of Queen Anne’s Revenge was verdant and opaque. Warren guessed the depth at more than twenty feet, but there was no way to be certain. From the intense expressions of the commanding officers of the ship, it was apparent the men were concerned about the approach to the coast.
“Strike the aft main sails,” Mr. Bostock shouted. “Reduce headway.”
Seamen immediately loosened the ropes from the appropriate belaying pins that held the bottom corners of the square sails which were stretched from the aft mast yardarms. Free of their restraints, the twin black canvasses flapped in the breeze until sailors hanging over the yardarms lifted and furled them in place.
“Stand by for soundings,” Mr. Bostock called.
A seaman on the most forward section of the bow twirled a lead attached to a thin line over his head and tossed it in front of the slowly moving ship. He watched it splash in the water and payed out line until the weight hit the bottom. The man noted the position of the water surface on the line which was marked in graduations with colorful pieces of hemp.
“Three fathoms and more, captain!” the sailor announced as he quickly retrieved the device and threw it again.
Warren heard the report and understood the depth to be greater than eighteen feet.
* * *
The shore line gradually became more distinct. The outline of heavily wooded areas stretched unevenly on both sides of the bow.
“Captain,” a sailor shouted from the masthead. “The river mouth be visible ahead; ten degrees to starboard.”
Warren felt the ship make the subtle correction. He looked forward and was able to discern a break in the coastline several miles ahead.
Captain Teach ordered more sails struck. Sailors raced up the rope ladders leading to the forward mast, pulled the luffing sheets up, and secured them tightly to the yardarms with leather straps.
Queen Anne’s Revenge slowed and sailed cautiously toward the colony of South Carolina and Charles Town. Short breaking waves tumbled along the length of the two long sandbars that reached far into the Atlantic on either side of the channel carved by the confluence of the Ashley and Cooper Rivers. The distinctly brown colored water flowing to the sea helped differentiate the safe passage from the perilous shallow mud flats on either side.
After a torturous two hours of delicate maneuvering and constant soundings, the ship crawled up the slough created by the relentless flow of the rivers, and the Queen Anne’s Revenge finally entered a broad, deep harbor.
“Luff all sails and drop the anchor,” Blackbeard called loudly. The relief in his voice was palpable after the tension of the nerve-wracking approach.
The massive cast iron anchor fell from the bow where it had been suspended by two ropes. The huge splash was immediately followed by the rattle of rapidly disappearing chain. One of the flukes quickly buried in the soft bottom, and the chain stopped. Queen Anne’s Revenge slowly fell back against the current, securely anchored in the Charles Town harbor.
The village of Charles Town stood one mile to the west, at the tip of a peninsula, positioned strategically at the junction of the two rivers.
“Maintain a sharp lookout in the crow’s nest. I wish to know about every vessel entering and departing the port,” Blackbeard ordered.
“Aye, captain.”
~17~
Warren reclined on the main deck with Robert Gladstone as the shadows of the masts lengthened across the tranquil waters of the Charles Town harbor. Conchshell lay with her head on crossed front paws and watched pelicans dive from the sky on schools of bait fish.
“Damnation, laddie,”
The water beneath the keel of Queen Anne’s Revenge was verdant and opaque. Warren guessed the depth at more than twenty feet, but there was no way to be certain. From the intense expressions of the commanding officers of the ship, it was apparent the men were concerned about the approach to the coast.
“Strike the aft main sails,” Mr. Bostock shouted. “Reduce headway.”
Seamen immediately loosened the ropes from the appropriate belaying pins that held the bottom corners of the square sails which were stretched from the aft mast yardarms. Free of their restraints, the twin black canvasses flapped in the breeze until sailors hanging over the yardarms lifted and furled them in place.
“Stand by for soundings,” Mr. Bostock called.
A seaman on the most forward section of the bow twirled a lead attached to a thin line over his head and tossed it in front of the slowly moving ship. He watched it splash in the water and payed out line until the weight hit the bottom. The man noted the position of the water surface on the line which was marked in graduations with colorful pieces of hemp.
“Three fathoms and more, captain!” the sailor announced as he quickly retrieved the device and threw it again.
Warren heard the report and understood the depth to be greater than eighteen feet.
* * *
The shore line gradually became more distinct. The outline of heavily wooded areas stretched unevenly on both sides of the bow.
“Captain,” a sailor shouted from the masthead. “The river mouth be visible ahead; ten degrees to starboard.”
Warren felt the ship make the subtle correction. He looked forward and was able to discern a break in the coastline several miles ahead.
Captain Teach ordered more sails struck. Sailors raced up the rope ladders leading to the forward mast, pulled the luffing sheets up, and secured them tightly to the yardarms with leather straps.
Queen Anne’s Revenge slowed and sailed cautiously toward the colony of South Carolina and Charles Town. Short breaking waves tumbled along the length of the two long sandbars that reached far into the Atlantic on either side of the channel carved by the confluence of the Ashley and Cooper Rivers. The distinctly brown colored water flowing to the sea helped differentiate the safe passage from the perilous shallow mud flats on either side.
After a torturous two hours of delicate maneuvering and constant soundings, the ship crawled up the slough created by the relentless flow of the rivers, and the Queen Anne’s Revenge finally entered a broad, deep harbor.
“Luff all sails and drop the anchor,” Blackbeard called loudly. The relief in his voice was palpable after the tension of the nerve-wracking approach.
The massive cast iron anchor fell from the bow where it had been suspended by two ropes. The huge splash was immediately followed by the rattle of rapidly disappearing chain. One of the flukes quickly buried in the soft bottom, and the chain stopped. Queen Anne’s Revenge slowly fell back against the current, securely anchored in the Charles Town harbor.
The village of Charles Town stood one mile to the west, at the tip of a peninsula, positioned strategically at the junction of the two rivers.
“Maintain a sharp lookout in the crow’s nest. I wish to know about every vessel entering and departing the port,” Blackbeard ordered.
“Aye, captain.”
~17~
Warren reclined on the main deck with Robert Gladstone as the shadows of the masts lengthened across the tranquil waters of the Charles Town harbor. Conchshell lay with her head on crossed front paws and watched pelicans dive from the sky on schools of bait fish.
“Damnation, laddie,”
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