Pirate Code (18 page)

Jesamiah masked any reaction. “But you do require a crew, and my men will not sail her without me.” He let that sink in, then said, “Give me a chance to prove our worth.” One more push, one more lure to gain trust and attention. “When my pirate brethren in Nassau realise I have been welcomed here in Hispaniola, when they hear I am honoured and respected among the Spanish, they will also come. Nigh on every captain who has a ship to sail will flock to your side because of me, and because Governor Rogers has treated us most ill. The Brotherhood does not take treachery kindly.” He smiled expansively, spread his hands as wide. He was sincere in what he was saying, had no need to add false bravado or colour the water. They would come, pirates did not take heavy-handed interference lightly. “You could have an entire fleet of experienced seamen at your disposal Governor. Men who know how to fight. What have you got to lose by hiring me?”

Don Damian was convinced. This was an opportunity not to be missed, but under no circumstances was he going to show his eagerness too soon.

“Very well. But I will require proof that you are not here to spy or play tricks. To show their worth, and your sincerity, your crew will make sail, capture a suitable prize and bring it here to me. If I believe it to be of satisfactory value, then I will accept your offer.”

Jesamiah nodded, that was acceptable. “
Sí, ningún problema
.“

The interview was over. Del Gardo beckoned his mistress to join him and progressed towards the door. His entourage rose and followed as if it were a stately procession, the ladies’ wide skirts supported by whalebone hoops swaying as if they too were ships at sea. After several yards del Gardo stopped, turned and said with a sickly-sweet smile; “No
Capitán
Acorne, you will not be with them. You will be staying here. Your ship will be under
Capitán
de Castilla’s command. If your crew does not return with something worthwhile within ten days then I will assume you are lying and I will hang you.” He clicked his fingers at two of the guards standing to attention beside the doorway. “Lock him up.”

“You can’t do this!” Jesamiah spluttered, backing away, close to panic. “The
Sea Witch
is my ship, no one else captains her!”

“Ah, but I can do this. Your crew will do as I command or they will all hang beside you. And I assure you,
Capitán
, you will welcome your hanging for that will be the easy part.“ He walked away. “I will have you drawn and quartered first.”

This had always been the risk, that the animosity del Gardo felt for Jesamiah would blind him to common sense. What Jesamiah had said about the state of his fleet had not been bluff, it was true. But offering to fight for the Spanish? Where did common sense come into it? Stupidity was more apt.

Two

~ Do you have him? ~

~ He has seen me, heard me, though he does not recognise who I am. But I have him, yes. ~

~ Then give him to me! He is mine! ~

Rain was not going to be so obliging. Why should she give him up? She liked him. She wanted to keep him. ~ The Witch Woman says he is hers. I might decide that she is right and give him back. ~

~ No! No, I forbid it! I forbid you! ~ Tethys was furious, how dare her daughter disobey! How dare that sly, pale-faced, black-haired witch interfere! Acorne was hers! Hers!

She raged, built herself into a torrent of violence that she unleashed against the shore, seething her weight in a frenzy of white-foamed, high-curved, battering waves. But she knew little of the land, and where she spent her temper, among the marshes and sand banks of the Ocracoke, and along the uninhabited North Carolina coast, she did little damage, for she only disturbed the waterfowl and the indigenous boat people. Fisher-folk.

Rain, although she came from the sea, had never cared for her mother. She ran off oblivious to the turmoil she was causing. All she was interested in was him. The one the Witch Woman called Jesamiah.

Three

Saturday Night

Dark, small, spaces had terrified Jesamiah since his lonely days of childhood. A legacy of when Phillipe had shut him in cupboards, or the cellar, bolting the doors and leaving him there for hours on end. He would come to let him out, eventually, but always Jesamiah had feared that he would not. On the last occasion when Phillipe had chained him in the dank and stinking below-deck world of a cable tier and subjected him to things that no sane man would have done to another, if it had not been for Tiola and the crew of the Sea Witch he would have died. Died with the sound of Phillipe’s sadistic laughter ringing in his ears.

He could hear that laughter now, slithering under the locked door with the blade-thin strand of lamplight. He could hear Phillipe coming nearer and nearer, stop at the door, then walk away again. Next time, next time he would come in and…Jesamiah curled his arms around his head, moaned piteously. No matter that this was not a dank cellar but the highest room in the tower, that there was a grilled window giving air and a faint haze of cloud-covered moonlight. No matter that the man outside was a Spanish guard, not Phillipe, he was living in the dread-filled nightmare of his childhood. Summoning the courage to look up, Jesamiah stared at the window. It was cold in here, but he was sweating. Phillipe was dead. Dead! He, Jesamiah, had killed him. Why could he not forget the past, look to the future? He groaned again, closed his eyes. What future was there without Tiola? There had been nothing from her. She had not tried to reach him. There was a huge emptiness inside him, a black pit within his belly as if his guts had been ripped out. She was not with him. Tiola had gone.

Inhaling a steadying breath he reached out to touch the man who lay on the floor in a scrunched, untidy heap. Jesamiah had no idea who he was, why he was here or what he had done, all he knew was that the poor sod had been cruelly tortured and was close to death. The reason they had brought the wretch in here, as dusk had fallen, he could guess as well. To show what he faced if the
Sea Witch
did not return. Or if del Gardo changed his mind.

Misery permeated the entire tower; its rancid smell was of faeces and fear. Not death. Those chained in this tower welcomed the release of death. He had been imprisoned here before, chained like an animal with the crew of Malachias Taylor’s
Mermaid
, in a cell down in the depths of the foundations. For two nights they had suffered there. Two nights that had lasted a lifetime in his memory.

The man was breathing, but very shallowly, the air rasping in his lungs. Jesamiah had already tried to make him comfortable by rolling him on his side, covering him with his coat, but there were too many broken bones and torn sinews. Blood from ruptured organs frothed from his mouth. The rack was a horrible way to die. They had many horrible ways to make a man die in here.

Jesamiah choked down vomit. They had made him watch as they had killed the
Mermaid
’s quartermaster. It was del Gardo’s way to make the next victim watch the previous one die. They had fed a long line of knotted linen down the poor bastard’s throat, making him swallow it as they poured water down his gullet. Had then poured more pints down to make it curl and snag and twine around within his intestines. Had left him lying there moaning as his belly began to ache. Chained to the wall there was nothing Jesamiah could do except listen. Not watch. When he could he had squeezed his eyes shut. But at the end they had made him look, telling him he was to be next as they pulled the linen out again, bringing everything with it. Disembowelling the quartermaster, pulling his intestines out of his open, screaming, mouth with the linen, inch by slow, agonising, inch. It had taken the poor bastard a while to die. Jesamiah rolled over, spewed his guts into the putrid straw.

They had escaped. Somehow Taylor had bribed the guard and they had escaped. The air, the sea – life – that October dawn, had never seemed as sweet. Malachias had never smuggled cargo into Hispaniola again, and nor had Jesamiah. Until now he had avoided the place, both island and sea lanes. Why had he come back? He must be out of his mind!

It was raining outside. Hard, heavy rain that beat against the brickwork, drummed on the lead roof and spouted from a hole in the gutter beside the window. Some of the rain was coming in and collecting on the floor making the stink of mouldy straw and human waste puddle into a black, sodden mess.

The man groaned again, the sound an agonised wheeze. He stared, bewildered, up at Jesamiah, the faint light from beneath the door reflecting in the pain-wracked whites of his fearful eyes.

“It’s all right my friend, I will not harm you. I will stay with you. You are not alone.” Were the words of comfort for this creature’s benefit or his own? “The pain will go soon. I promise you.”

Jesamiah would have taken the man’s hand, but what was left of the poor bugger’s fingers was all torn and bloody.

What was Rue doing? Had he clewed up? Would he think of running on topsails only if the wind increased? Was he taking care of
Sea Witch
? Wiping the taste of vomit from his mouth, telling himself he was being stupid, Jesamiah fought aside threatening tears. It had been hard, so hard, to stand at that window and watch
Sea Witch
sail away without him. She had looked beautiful, her sails spread, her bow lifting as she had met the first roller of the open sea. He was not with her, his hand was not on the helm, his voice was not giving the commands. His feet were not wide-planted on the lift and heave of the quarterdeck. He trusted Rue, would trust him with his life – his ship – but by God’s truth he wanted her back!

Sitting there in the near dark, listening to the man’s whimpering, he told himself Rue would not permit de Castilla to interfere. It was likely someone had already shut him in the great cabin, bolted the door and left him there. Finch would probably have ensured he had a keg of brandy, effectively silencing any protest. Rubbing his face, neck and shoulders, massaging the stiffness, Jesamiah stood, eased the ache from his back. The skin was still sore. Nearly all of him was still sore.

The man coughed, attempted to say something. Hurrying to lean close, Jesamiah tried to understand the whispered Spanish, but could make out nothing that made sense.

“What is your name?” he asked, coaxing, gentle. “Who are you?”

“I…”

“I’m listening. Who are you? What is your name?”

The man took a gurgling, shallow breath. “Ches..”

With a gasp Jesamiah suddenly came alert. He bent closer, his ear almost to the man’s bruised and bleeding mouth, his hands light on the man’s shoulders, restraining himself from giving them a fierce shake. “Chesham? You are Francis Chesham?”
Dear God
, he thought,
I’ve found their spy
.

“Ches…Must, tell. Ches…”

“No need to tell me anything, my friend. I know of you.”

“Must…tell.” With a sigh of exhaled breath the man died.

Jesamiah stood, went to the window, clasped his hands around the bars, grateful for the rain that was washing his face.

Francis Chesham. The man Jennings had asked him to find. He had not said why exactly, but whatever the reason, it was no use now. Poor bastard.

Resting his head on the bars, Jesamiah groaned. No man should die like that. No man should be so torn to pieces and made to say words he did not want to say.

The rain had the smell of the sea in it, or was it the wind that was blowing the aroma in? He could certainly hear it, crashing angrily against the rocks below. A wild sea, frothing and foaming, the spray hurtling and booming into the hollows and cracks as if it was jealous of the rain that was patting his cheeks like a lover’s tender caress. A fanciful thought, which brought Tiola’s face to his mind, her touch, her love.

Jesamiah turned away, a cry choking his throat, tears trickling. He wanted, missed, his ship but oh, oh how much more he wanted and missed Tiola! Just to hear her voice with its slight lilt of a Cornish accent, to smell her natural perfume that reminded him of summer flowers and sun-drenched hay meadows. And the sea. Tiola also had a smell of the sea about her now. Not seaweed or tar or wet sand, but a subtle, invigorating sea tang. But she had gone, had left him. He had never really noticed her presence within him – does a man notice an arm or a leg or his sight? Nothing is noticed until it is gone. And she had gone. The part of her soul that had united with his, that had taken root within him, had been plucked out, leaving an aching, yawning void of emptiness.

This whole thing had been a stupid, stupid, idea. He had lost his ship and his woman. Without the
Sea Witch
he would never get Tiola back. He would not be able to find that indigo, would not be able to take it to van Overstratten as a trade, and then God alone knew what the Dutchman would do to Tiola. Was he treating her badly? Was he…? It was night. Van Overstratten was her husband and Tiola had turned away from Jesamiah, had shut him out. He moaned as an unbidden image of Tiola and Stefan hit him. He fell to his knees. Tiola. Oh my love, Tiola!

Alone, cold and weary Jesamiah wrapped his arms about himself, rocking too and fro in abject misery. Kneeling there in the soiled, musty straw, he sobbed.

Four

Aboard Stefan van Overstratten’s sloop, a maid, one of his chosen servants answerable only to him, irritably pressed the rim of a goblet against Tiola’s lips and encouraged her inert form to swallow.

Bitterness mixed with sweet. Honey and lemon, comfrey and other herbs – the dark brew that brought a deep, deep, sleep. By instinct, the human form of Tiola drank. It was easier for the maid to ensure her mistress slept for on the few occasions when she partially awoke she would thrash around and cry out, and the maid was a lazy slattern who preferred to spend her time enjoying herself with the crew below deck. If Tiola awoke there would be more work to do, so she laced the medicine with laudanum, lied to van Overstratten whenever he asked and said the Mistress slept on.

None except Jesamiah was aware of Tiola’s secret. No one else knew that she was of the Craft; that until her human form roused from the artificial state of a drugged sleep her soul could not return to it. For Tiola, the door to existence was firmly shut. And the key turned in the lock.

She knew she ought to open her eyes; was aware she had been drifting for too long, but it was peaceful here, floating, untroubled, in this calm silence. Tiola half roused herself, struggling against the tiredness that was weighing her down. She ought to be refreshed by now. Ought to be strong again, and back where she belonged…She frowned in her sleep. Where did she belong? Her soul was a part of the Universe, she was as one with the dance of the stars and the drift of time. She was immortal. Had been there, on this tiny, insignificant planet, when the first spark had struck the first stone, that had evolved and grown into the life of bone.

She should wake, should join with her body. Why was she still here? For a moment she panicked, the spirit that was her being fluttered with alarm and she tumbled and whirled over and over, around and around, confused, disorientated and suddenly very frightened. If she did not return soon her host body, without its protective spirit, would wither and die, and then she would be here forever and fail in her task of protecting those in her care from the Dark of Evil.

It had happened to so many of her kind already; the Immortals of Light, their spirits driven away and their earth-bound forms burnt, buried, starved or dismembered. Her sisters, so many, many of them, condemned and destroyed.

There was a name, a name she should remember… What name? She could see his face, his black hair, his dark eyes. His smile. Could feel his hands on her as he made love…Could not remember his name!

Desperate, she tried to wake but she could not crawl through the tunnel of blackness that separated her from awareness and life, and she was too tired to try again. Too tired to struggle any more. She closed her eyes and drifted on through the quiet of the white, eternal emptiness. And forgot everything.