Pirate Code (16 page)

Part Two

Hispaniola

One

Saturday Morning

Finding a chase – a Frenchy – soon after dawn, the crew of the
Sea Witch
had fended off a brief effort at resistance, boarded, and helped themselves to what they needed: replacement sail, timber, and three fine anchors with attached cable. The essential repairs had been carried out at sea, and without losing much time, they had raised Hispaniola in the early morning light of this bright and sunny day.

A tropical paradise with magnificent beaches, palm tree groves and luxuriant meadows set beside a hilly landscape where cotton, tobacco and sugar plantations were framed by the high, greenery-covered mountains. Pico Duarte, purple-hazed and visible from several miles out to sea, soared to over ten thousand feet – the highest point in the entire West Indies. Closer to shore, on the western bank of the Ozama River, the walls of Santo Domingo, the oldest town in the New World, steadily became clearer as
Sea Witch
ploughed joyfully through the surf.

It all looked lovely beneath the clear blue of the sky and the sparkle of the sun. The backdrop of lush, tropical forest tumbling down to white beaches and swaying palm trees.

A pity,
Jesamiah thought,
the tranquillity is spoilt by that bloody fortress
.

He watched, transfixed, the dread growing heavier inside him as the sixty-five solid feet of the
Torre del Homenaje
, the Tower of Homage, loomed nearer. The place of despair and death, where tortured, pathetic wretches were incarcerated behind walls seven-foot thick to await their doom. He knew all about the horrors behind those walls. He’d been there.

If it was not for the fact that the tide was taking the
Sea Witch
into the estuary that led into the Rio Ozama, Jesamiah may well have changed his mind, ordered the men to wear ship and scuttle away as fast as they could. But it was too late, the tide was making and they were in the river. The day was hot, but as they neared that tower he found he was shivering.

Poke a sleeping guard dog and it comes leaping to life, barking, hackles raised, teeth bared and ready to bite. The only strategy was to offer it a bone and hope it was hungry enough to want it. Jesamiah prayed the bone he held was suitably tasty.

Sea Witch
carried twelve powerful cannons on her lower gun deck, four in the waist, two lighter guns for’ard and the two stern chasers in Jesamiah’s cabin. With the addition of six swivel guns mounted fore and aft she was a formidable vessel against poorly manned merchant ships, although Jesamiah rarely attacked opponents who appeared to know what they were doing. As with most pirates, when it was more sensible to run, he ran; not an act of cowardice, just one of self-preservation for himself, his crew and his ship. Why start a fight you have every possibility of losing? Especially when the next sail on the horizon may offer better odds. They were sitting ducks out here though. For all her firepower
Sea Witch
could not hope to match the might of those land-based cannons ranged along the ramparts of the fort.

A single warning shot reverberated with a whoomph of sound and a puff of smoke from the walls. The ball, whistling through the air as it came, arced over the bowsprit and splashed into the sea a mere two feet away. From where he stood on the quarterdeck Jesamiah could see at least a dozen cannons aimed directly at
Sea Witch
. Their presence up there was no empty threat, nor, when Jesamiah swung the telescope towards the town, did the array of armed militia hurriedly lining up along the jetty show any sign of a warm welcome.

Glancing up at the makeshift white flag of truce – Tiola’s white lace-edged cloth flying high from the main topgallant mast – Jesamiah attempted to put a brave face on the situation. “At least we’re being taken seriously. Treated with the respect due our position.”

At the helm, Rue growled at him, his brows deeply furrowed. “They are ready to blast us out the water. That,
mon ami
, is not respect, nor is it a good position for us to be in.”

Digging his quartermaster in the ribs with his elbow, Jesamiah answered, “If they did not respect us, mate, they’d have smashed us already. The only reason they ain’t done so,
mi amigo
, is because they’re curious about us, and that is a good position for us to be in.”

Another shot fell with a fountain of spray three feet from the larboard midships.

Rue glowered doubtfully at his captain, who in return forced a wavering grin and steadfastly assured, “They ain’t missing us by accident, Rue.” Fervently thought,
I hope
.

A third ball would prove him right or wrong. The previous two were either precisely aimed as a warning or they were ranging shots. In which case the third would…

Squinting against the bright sun Jesamiah refused to follow that line of contemplation.
Sea Witch
was gliding sedately forward as if she had no idea that these could be her last few minutes intact and afloat. But then, she trusted her captain implicitly, had never had a reason to doubt him.

“The line if you please, Isiah,” Jesamiah said surprising himself at the calm in his voice. “And fetch the courses in.” Five ships were anchored ahead and to larboard, but they were Spaniards, they knew these waters, he did not.

“By the deep nine, Cap’n!” Isiah called a few moments later, reeling in the lead-line and preparing to toss it outward again.

Under topsails,
Sea Witch
crept towards the shore.

“And a half eight,” Isiah chanted. Then, “And a quarter eight.” The tide was on the flood, at least if they went aground the sea would lift them off again.

“Larboard a point, Rue. Straighten her up. We don’t want to look tawdry,” Jesamiah said quietly, aware that many critical eyes were watching from the shore. He could not afford to make a poor show of this. He wondered whether he ought to clear for action – no that could give the wrong idea, he needed to show he came in peace, not to fight. “Nat, fire a rolling broadside salute from the larboard battery if you please. Powder only. No shot.”

Nathan nodded, turned to run off. “And Nat,” Jesamiah added, “I’d be obliged if you make sure it’s done ‘andsomely in Navy fashion. I’m attempting to make a good impression ‘ere, savvy?”

“Aye, Cap’n. Handsomely it is.”

Within a few minutes the larboard cannons blasted smoke and noise; one, two, three, four, five … A salute, to show respect and make it clear that the guns were not loaded for any action of hostility. Jesamiah nodded. Nicely done. If that did not convince those ashore that they were here under friendly terms nothing would.

The whole crew were on deck, standing rigid, watching, waiting – like their captain, waiting for that third firing of the fort’s cannon, knowing that if it came it would not fall short.

“Keep that lead going in the chains there!” Jesamiah commanded, his anxiety finally taking its toll in his voice. His stomach was churning; he suppressed the urge to vomit over the side. He could not take his gaze off that tower, that bloody tower.

“By the mark eight,” Isiah called.

Well enough still, but this was a river, channels could be fickle, could run shallow at any moment. Again Jesamiah asked Rue to adjust course, the men quietly turning to the braces to tend the yards and meet her.

“And a half seven.”

The water was smooth here,
Sea Witch
crept over the glassy surface, gliding above her own reflection, the only sound the ceaseless harping of the rigging, the chuckle of the water under the keel and a slight moan from the wind. The western shore was drawing nearer, the spread of the town with its white-walled houses showing up clearer than those built in darker stone. From the great cathedral a flash of sunlight blazed on the gold crucifix on its roof. The walls of that fort coming nearer. The tower looming higher.

“And a half seven.” A pause, a splash, then, “By the mark seven.”

“Is the anchor clear?”

“Aye sir.”

“By the mark seven.”

No point in going further, they were almost up on the nearest of those five ships now.

“Let go the anchor!”

The newly acquired cable roared out through the hawsehole while the men sprang to furl the topsails, and
Sea Witch
swung round to the wind and the tide. For good or ill, they had arrived.

Isiah wiped a hand beneath his nose, indicated the shore. “Seems someone’s comin’ out to greet us, Cap’n. They must be mighty eager to say hello.”

Jesamiah angled the telescope at the longboat. In addition to the oarsmen, a dozen Spaniards, all of them bristling with muskets and pistols.

Assuming there would be some form of reception committee, Jesamiah had already attired himself in the best clothes he could muster; standing in the waist waiting for the boat to come alongside he suddenly wondered if perhaps his old clothes would have been more appropriate. These would be ruined the instant he was thrown into the dungeons of that tower.

His fingers fiddled with the blue ribbons in his hair, sense kept his hand away from cutlass and pistol as a man he recognised stepped aboard. Jesamiah groaned. Captain Augustine de Castilla.

”
Buenos dias
. We meet again,
mi amigo
,” Jesamiah said in fluent Spanish, knowing de Castilla spoke very little English. He offered a polite bow, then his hand. Both were ignored by narrowed eyes, a glower of intense disapproval and hostile dislike.

“We thought it was you. Your ship, with her blue hull, she is distinctive.” There was no trace of hospitality in his manner or reply, but then, Jesamiah expected none. He had once, after all, right under de Castilla’s nose, emptied an entire warehouse of gold and silver that the Spaniard had been guarding.

De Castilla shoved his face close to Jesamiah’s, the sneer lurid. “If I had my way, Acorne, you would be strung by your balls from your own yardarm here and now, but I have orders to fetch you ashore. I have not been ordered to ensure you remain in one piece, however. I will be delighted to deliver you in bits, should you attempt resistance.”

Moving with slow deliberation, Jesamiah took the pistol from his belt by its barrel, solemnly handed it to de Castilla who passed it to the officer at his side; the cutlass followed, drawn with equally slow measure.

“As you see,
Señor
, I come to Santo Domingo in peace. I have no wish to fight against you, in fact I come to offer my services to fight with you.”

Captain de Castilla planted his legs wide, set his fists to his hips and tossed his head back in a great belly-deep guffaw of amusement. He then hoiked spittle into his throat and spat disrespectfully at Jesamiah’s feet. “Your ship we will accept as a small payment towards the amount you stole from
España
. For the other part, your flayed hide dangling from the foremast will suffice.
Estoy claro
?”

Glancing up at the fortress, Jesamiah absent-mindedly toyed with his ribbons, “
Yo entiendo, Señor
.” Then added in the corrupted slang that many in the Caribbean had adopted, and so annoyed the Spanish, “
yo sabe
.” In English, repeated for the third time, “I savvy, I understand.”

He then forced a smile, said, as pleasantly as any sarcastic comment could be made; “I know for a fact your gunners up on those battlements are accurate, but that is because you have three or four capable gun captains. The rest of the men behind those ramparts are probably drunk out of their tiny skulls and cannot even stand upright, let alone shoot straight.” Pointedly, he nodded at the blue-coated soldiers arrayed along the jetty. “They look very pretty, most impressive. From a distance. How many have no more than two rounds of ammunition in their pouches? How many of those muskets have rusting barrels and worn flints? I also note their line is only one deep. That is not many men,
Señor
.”

He turned slightly, indicated the ships at anchor. “Fine frigates. One is listing to starb’d, she’ll be taking on water like a rabid dog if put to sea. That one over there is the
Señorita Doña Medici
. Now, how many times have I already bested her? Three is it, or four? Then those other two, the
Dolce
and the
Asunción
. Unless you have replaced the dolt who is master of the
Asunción
you may as well not bother with her. He does not know east from west – and that’s when he’s sober. As for the
Dolce
, well, I admit I have never robbed her. For me she is a prim little virgin.”

De Castilla interrupted sharply. “No one can, or will, better her. She is the finest ship in the Spanish Main; she has the speed of a dolphin, has…”

“…The waddle of a flat-footed pelican. I’ve never beaten her in a fight,
Señor
, because she is rarely at sea! She sits there like a beached whale for God’s sake!” Jesamiah threw his hands in the air, exasperated by this rotund, moustached idiot. “And this is the sum of your Spanish Navy here in Hispaniola? Hell’s tits, I could sail rings around the lot of you, one handed and with my eyes shut!”

“One handed and blind we can arrange,” de Castilla snarled. He too indicated the ships, the fifth one. “You have not mentioned
la Santa Isabella
.”

She, Jesamiah had to admit to himself, looked in pretty good shape. “I do not know her. I will have to see her in action to make judgement. Who captains her?”

De Castilla leant forward, spoke directly into Jesamiah’s face, his breath stinking of onions and sour wine. “I do,
Capitán
Acorne. I do.”

Tempted to say something along the line of: “Oh, nothing to worry about then?” Jesamiah held his tongue. Several of his men who spoke enough Spanish to understand the exchange must have read his thoughts, however, for there was a ripple of sniggered laughter.

De Castilla jerked his arm and angrily gestured towards the waiting gig.

“What of my crew?” Jesamiah asked as he turned to descend the hull cleats. “I fly a flag of truce. I expect your word of honour for the safety of my men.”