Pirate Code (13 page)

Twenty

Tuesday Night

Taking a long swig from the rum bottle in his hand, Jesamiah wiped the residue from his moustache and lips on his coat sleeve. He had every confidence that most of the men would come with him, for they valued their freedom too highly to submit to Rogers or Vernon, or any of those whoreson promise-breakers. It was the lure of freedom that had turned them pirate in the first place. A small thing like he proposed doing would not deter hard-arsed seamen. Would it? Except, of course, it was not so small.

He put the bottle down with a thump on his prized mahogany dining table, sat, went to lean back and with a gasp of pain abruptly changed his mind. Twisting slightly sideways, his elbow on the chair arm to take his weight, he propped one foot on another chair, crossed the other over. Not an entirely comfortable way to sit but it would have to do. His mind returned to what he had proposed; had he the right to be asking this of his crew? They would be sailing into the jaws of death as they tried to clear the sandbar out there. And after that – if there was an after that – they would be going to prod the devil’s backside.

Lifting his glass of rum, he held it up to the mildly rocking light of one of the overhead lanterns. Rum was a residue of refining sugar cane. Who was it, he wondered, who first discovered that if you leave the stuff to ferment it turns into rum?

The drink in his hand was a dark, rich, reddish brown; when first it became rum, it was a white, clear liquid. The brown colouring came from the kegs it was stored in; the longer the storage, the darker the rum, though some added more molasses or caramel sugar to heighten the darkness and taste. Some, complete madmen like Edward Teach, old Blackbeard himself, even added a pinch of gunpowder to give it a kick. Jesamiah savoured a mouthful of finest Jamaican. It had enough of a kick of its own without spoiling the flavour. Damned stupid of that estate to try and transport a whole shipload to England and not place a single cannon on board. Easy pickings, though the stuff decanted into this bottle was from the last remaining keg of the haul. Perhaps returning to piracy had its attractions?

Tiola! He closed his eyes squeezed back stupid tears at the thought of her. He was intending to abandon her again, leave her for a second time at the mercy of that Dutch butter-ball toad. Jesamiah put the glass down, unrolled van Overstratten’s note again.

I have Tiola. No indigo, no Tiola.

You will never see her alive again. I’ll make sure of that.

What did the Dutchman mean? That he intended to kill her? Shut her away in a nunnery or something? Take her back to Cape Town? What?

Furious, frustrated, Jesamiah dropped his feet to the deck, stood, and swept the rum bottle, glass, china plates, everything on the table to the floor. With it, Jennings’ tobacco pouch. Disdainfully he picked it up, unrolled it. The rich smell of tobacco wafted over his face. He wrinkled his nose, he disliked tobacco intensely. The stuff reminded him of Virginia and his childhood that had been one long ache of misery. The first time that Phillipe, several years the elder, had abused him they had been in the tobacco sheds. He thrust aside the unbidden feeling of revulsion and toyed with the pouch, opening it, found there was very little tobacco only a fold of parchment tucked into an inside pocket. A keepsake? Half curious he went to pull it out, changed his mind and stuffed it back in again. He flipped the thing shut, tossed it away, not noticing where it fell. Not caring.

What should he do about Tiola? Could he try fetching her? Savagely he kicked at a chair, gasped, clutched at its rim and clenched his teeth against the pain shooting through the torn flesh of his back. There was nothing he could do, absolutely nothing! He would not get two yards along the jetty, let alone anywhere near the Governor’s house. How could he expect to march up to that front door, demand entrance and the return of his woman?

Maybe that was what Vernon was expecting him to do. Maybe the Commodore had several longboats full of men waiting in the shadows over there. Waiting for him to go ashore, then they would swoop in, board
Sea Witch
and… He covered his face with his hands, groaned. No! They would not have her!

There was only one thing he could do. Go and get that bloody indigo, and work out, later, how he was going to sail back into Nassau harbour once he’d got it.

Rue tapped politely on the door, ducked in, said nothing at the broken, sodden mess scattered everywhere. “We ‘ave an accord,
Capitaine
.
Oui
, the men are behind you. Those few who are not are already making their way ashore.”

“How many?”

“
Quatorze
. Fourteen.”

Jesamiah nodded, pleased, relieved. Fourteen out of more than ninety was not so bad. He had expected Rue to say nearer forty. He walked over to where his hat lay on the floor, picked it up, brushed some drops of rum from it, rammed it on his head. “Let’s go then,” he said, with conviction. “Tell the men to clear for action.”

Rue turned to leave, a loud whoop of rising excitement bursting from his lungs. He too was becoming bored with this idle life of kicking his heels in harbour.

“But Rue.”

“
Oui?”

“Quietly eh? No point in waking this particular devil until his breakfast be ready to serve. We want to make out, for as long as we can, that we’re merely shifting position, savvy? They’ll realise soon enough that we ain’t.”

A moment later a heavy drubbing of feet echoed through the timbers of the ship as men scattered to their stations.

Finch bustled in, grumbling at the mess. “Broken china, glass everywhere? How we bloody goin’ t’replace it all then, eh? That’s what I’d like t’know.”

As always, Jesamiah ignored him, left his cabin to the men who were knocking down the bolts that held the bulkhead screens in place and swinging the stern windows upwards and fixing them to the ceiling. To roll out the cannon. He strode to the quarterdeck, stood back to watch appreciatively as the men worked, marvelling at their utter disregard of the likely possibility of getting blown to pieces within the next twenty minutes or so.

In the dim-lit darkness of the below-deck world, the gun crews were getting ready; the younger lads sluicing buckets of sand for the men to keep a better footing when they ran the trucks in and out for loading and firing. The gun captains ensuring match and powder was to hand, that shot was piled nearby.

The surgeon’s workspace was situated directly under the Captain’s cabin, beneath the water line, safe from the penetration of shot. Mr Janson was tying on Tiola’s leather apron, setting out the knives and saws, testing each blade with his thumb. He spat on one, rubbed away some grease. Tiola would have admonished him sharply for that, she insisted on meticulous cleanliness, but she was not here and Jansy would have to manage in his own way without her. He had acted as loblolly boy for more than half his long life, serving under a variety of surgeons, some good, most of them bad. Not a-one of them a patch on Tiola with her gentle ways and skilled hands.

Out in the waist, men were waiting on the open deck, poised at the braces. Others were gripping the ratlines, their bodies tense, knuckles white. They stood rigid, all eyes towards Jesamiah, hearts thumping, breath quickening; all waiting his signal to hurry aloft, to make sail. To open fire.

Jesamiah’s fingers caressed his blue ribbons, then he touched the lucky gold acorn dangling from his ear. If he stayed in harbour he would lose his ship and he was not prepared to do that. No matter what form of hell came to challenge him. To lose the
Sea Witch
would be the deepest pit, the deepest layer, the most painful purgatory – no, that was not true, the worst agony would be to lose Tiola. But to keep her he had to keep
Sea Witch
, and do what van Overstratten wanted. But if that was so, he was going to do it
his
way!

He raised his head, heard Tiola, her sweet voice calling him and he slammed his thoughts behind a closed door, did not answer. Stared instead at the run of the tide and assessed the strength of the wind. Rain was coming again. Another drenching.

He gazed over the dark spread of sea at
Challenger
, so apparently casually anchored close to the exit, her masts tall, black, silhouettes against the night sky, her stern lanterns three flares of yellow light. Henry Jennings had been right, Commodore Vernon knew his business. But then, so did Jesamiah.

At his command, Peter Piper and Toby Turner took their axes to the anchor cable and
Sea Witch
swung free. It meant losing the anchor but they had cut cables before in other emergencies. Replacing it was a simple matter of giving chase to the next ship they saw, boarding and acquiring what they needed. Hopefully, they would meet a Spaniard or a Frenchy. Jesamiah was not particularly bothered if it turned out to be English or Dutch; he would already be condemned once he crossed that sandbar, so what did it matter?

Ignoring the sudden dash of rain battering their faces and making their hands numb with its cold sting, the topmen, strung out along the yards, grappled with the growing area of sail as the loosened canvas begun to flap and bang in the rising wind.

The African, Isiah Roberts, cupped his hands around his mouth; “Man the braces! Come on, you’re like toothless old women! Move yourselves you lubbers!”

Heaving and panting, the men laid their backs into hauling the heavy yards, lewd curses on their breaths as, reluctantly, the spars responded and began to lumber round. Then the wind filled the sails and the canvas billowed out hard and full as
Sea Witch
eagerly gathered way.

Jesamiah took one final glance at the town. Was he being stupid? Was he insane to be doing this? He touched his ribbons again. Stupid, insane, he might be, but
Sea Witch
was under way and he was committed.

He reopened his mind to Tiola. ~
I’m sorry sweetheart. Please believe I love you.
~

He groaned. It was no good trying to initiate their communication by thought, he was not able to do so.

Rue took the helm and Jesamiah, standing beside him, also set one hand to rest lightly on a spoke. A lover’s caress. He shoved the thought of Tiola aside, looked straight ahead almost as if he did not see the
Challenger
looming nearer.

“Starboard a point,” Jesamiah said calmly.

“Starboard a point,” Rue repeated in French.

A pause as
Sea Witch
slowly responded.

“Bring her round a little more – slowly Rue, we need to come dead straight past her stern, then turn her as quick as a whore lifts her skirts, and head for the exit. We’ve a hard task ahead, mate. We’ll be under fire and we can’t afford to make a mistake. If we get stuck on that sand bar, Vernon will finish us as if we are a duck sitting on a pond. I want to steer her straight through the centre of the western channel where the tide runs deepest.”

“That is a narrow gap, and it is close to the fort, right under their guns,” Rue said. He nodded towards
Challenger
, finished, “And we will be carrying a fair bit of damage.”

“You ever known those clodpolls up in the fort to fire at anything and hit it?” Jesamiah answered. “The best officers will be down in the town with Vernon rounding up all the unfortunate bastards they can. The rest of ‘em will be drunk by now. They usually are, why should tonight be any exception? The wind is exactly as we want it, Rue. We duck our heads, loose all sail at the right moment and set her running.”

Rue sniffed, said nothing more. Once they were out of the harbour, then
oui
, they would be alright, but that would take precious minutes to achieve. Minutes where they would be under the direct fire of the
Challenger
’s guns; two, maybe even three merciless rounds at close quarters? There was no point in making further comment, however; he would not be telling Jesamiah anything he did not already know.

Picking up the speaking trumpet so he may be heard clearly, Jesamiah stepped forward to the rail, set it to his mouth. Men were looking expectantly towards him, everyone waiting. At the open hatch leading down to the main deck, Nathan stood ready to relay orders. In a matter of seconds it would be nothing but smoke and noise and blood and guts down there.

“We will rake
Challenger
’s stern, then come round. We’ll be passing close and quick, you will fire as your gun’s bear – gun captains, I want reload as fast as your crews can manage – no, make that faster. I want everything you’ve got, men, you hear me? We’re clewed up for fighting sail, but we need every inch of canvas as soon as we’re easing past the
Challenger
and we’re lined up with the western channel. Wind and tide are in our favour. I said we are going to make a run for it and I mean we are going to run for it.”

One last check; all hands were at their stations,
Sea Witch
was gliding forward, the water quietly gurgling past her keel as she increased speed, her bowsprit would soon be level with the
Challenger
’s stern. She was ready. They all were. Jesamiah lifted his hand, paused, staring ahead.

Shouting, a sudden flurried scramble aboard
Challenger
as the set watch became aware that the
Sea Witch
was not just moving from one side of the harbour to the other.

Then Tiola’s presence. Distinctly Jesamiah was aware of her nearness, could feel her vibrant being around him, beside him, within him.

~
Jesamiah?
~

~
I’m so sorry sweetheart! Please believe I love you. I have to do this. I have no choice!
~

Deliberately he shut her out. Concentrated on his men and his ship. He dropped his hand, shouted, “Run out! Number one gun; fire!”

And Hell came to Nassau harbour.

Twenty One

Tiola was seated at Governor Rogers’ expansive and well-served dining table. No one seemed to notice the rioting and despair running wild beyond the sheltering wall of the Governor’s house. Rogers never missed dinner, insisted it was served on time whatever else was happening. The gates were locked, militiamen patrolled the courtyard; no one could get in, they were all quite safe and so no one cared what was going on outside. Except perhaps Henry Jennings, who sat staring into his soup solemnly watching it congeal and grow cold. He too had no stomach for the Press Gang.

At the head of the table Rogers was heartily amusing himself with his own tawdry jests and Stefan, opposite Tiola, ate in stiff silence. Mrs Rogers, as always, twittered away like the empty-head dullard she was. There was fighting out there. Men clawing to keep their freedom, doing it by the only way they knew, with anger and the spilling of blood. Men were dead, dying. Others, many others, were being forcibly subdued and then bound against their will into a form of slavery; forced to serve the King aboard a King’s ship. No matter that they would be fed, clothed, and receive medical attention, they were paid a pittance and had to work and fight against their will. Against their free will. Tiola felt disgusted and sickened. Was more disgusted at herself than these men, for she too was sitting here attending to her soup and not doing anything to help those unfortunates outside.

She sat here because there was nothing she could do. She had not saved the life of the child or its mother, could not save those wretched men, and could do nothing to help Jesamiah.

“I am so glad you have made amends with your husband, my dear,” Mrs Rogers repeated, yet again, her hand reaching out to squeeze Tiola’s. “It is our duty to serve our husbands, although we receive little thanks for it.” She sighed and reached out to straighten her husband’s askew wig, smiled conspiratorially at her only female companion. “Mr Rogers does so vex me with his lack of care for his appearance.”

Steadfastly, Tiola ignored the woman as she meandered on. It made sense to come here, she could not fault Stefan on that, for the rioting had spread quickly – and was being as quickly stamped out – but angry men with weapons were volatile, and Nassau was like an open powder keg this night. Initially, she had been surprised to find him waiting for her, but in public he was always a man who wanted to be seen doing the right thing; no husband who took pains to portray himself as a gentleman would have abandoned his wife to the mob. And for once it appeared he truly was concerned for her.

Mindful and courteous, he had shielded her from two drunks who barged into them, and taken her arm to guide her away from a brawl ahead. Had raised his pistol twice to threaten potential aggressors. She was capable of taking care of herself but for fear of exposure, she did not like to rely on her ability of Craft, and in truth, she had been grateful for his protection. She had been relieved to find herself brought here, although she strongly suspected Stefan had some ulterior motive for his solicitude. A motive she had not, yet, had opportunity to uncover.

Dinner, she realised however, was going to be one of those occasions that she would prefer not to happen. From the outset, Mrs Rogers had assumed the rift, “Your little upset” as she termed it, between husband and wife had been mended.

“Get yourself with child,” she suddenly whispered. “Always the best way to please a husband, they enjoy fussing over and pampering you because they hope for the patter of a little boy’s feet.” Mrs Rogers’ whispers, like those of her husband’s, were a full-blown trumpet blast.

Woodes Rogers guffawed. “Patter of feet? Good grief woman, that son you presented me with fifteen years ago thundered around as if he had nailed boots on!”

“Seventeen, dear. He is seventeen now.”

“Is he by Jove! Well bless me, where does time go, eh? Ha, ha!” He thumped his hand on to Stefan’s shoulder. “Get yer poke undone, Stefan, give yer wife something to think about other than that stubbornly unhelpful swab of a pirate. Make sure no bun cooking in the oven is of his dough first though, eh?”

He was not a man who understood the word, or the deed, of tact. Mrs Rogers blushed at his crude humour and hastily changed the subject.

Answering automatically, aye or nay, to a barrage of minor domestic trivialities, Tiola opened her mind to the man she loved.

~
Jesamiah?
~ She met the blackness of his shielded mind, as solid as a wall, but she tentatively pushed against it, insistent, and his defence momentarily crumbled. She heard, felt, him respond, a brief snatch of his loving presence, his tenderness and devotion, all of it instantly ripped away in an outburst of distraught anguish.

~
I’m so sorry sweetheart! Please believe I love you. I have to do this. I have no choice
! ~

And the world beyond the closed windows of Governor Rogers’ first floor dining room erupted into a blasting crescendo of sound, the sky was lit as if it were day, the windows rattled, the ground shook. The men were on their feet, hurling their chairs aside, scrambling for the French windows.

Rogers hauled them open, hurried out on to the balcony. “Gad! That bloody Fanny Anne Vernon ain’t firing cannon at m’town now, is he? I’ll have him court-martialled!”

Tiola darted with them, her lace shawl slipping from her shoulders to crumple unnoticed on the sun-faded carpet, her hands pressing hard, covering her mouth to stifle the scream from hurtling outward.

~
Jesamiah! No!
~ Was he going? Yet again was he sailing away and leaving her behind? She could not believe this was happening!

~
I thought you loved me, thought you wanted me! Jesamiah! Oh Jesamiah!
~

Henry Jennings was shaking his head, one hand going to her shoulder in comforting understanding as the tears began to crawl down her cheeks. Rogers was blustering as loud as the booming echoes that were shuddering through Nassau. Only Stefan van Overstratten remained seated, arms folded, his expression a contortion of intense satisfaction and relief.