Pirate Code (25 page)

Eighteen

They were waiting for him. Three men hit him, hard, one with a fist to the stomach, one with a cudgel on his shoulders and the third, as he sank with a groan to his knees, kicked a boot into his groin.

That’s m’excuse sorted for not entertainin’ the ladies
, Jesamiah thought grimly as he went down. With another blow to the back of his head, fell unconscious.

He awoke, with no idea of how long he had been out cold, to find himself suspended by his wrists from a meat hook attached to an overhead beam. His arms and shoulders were taking the full weight of his dangling body. His first thought was that this was a bloody undignified way to wake up. His second was a bitten off scream of pain.

The bruising had barely faded from the damage Phillipe had done to him, his ribs were still not healed and now it felt as if they were broken again; his right eye was crusted with dried blood and his back hurt like the damnation of the devil. He’d had better days.

Squinting through one eye he discovered he was in a cellar; barrels and kegs were stacked on two sides, wooden chests and tall racks of bottles on the other two. The foetid air was damp and musty, smelt of rat pee, mouldering wine and stale tobacco. Another blow, this one to the small of his back. He felt moisture trickling beneath his cotton shirt. Sweat? He had a feeling one of the lash marks had opened up, it felt more like blood. The floor was only an inch or so beneath his feet but it could have been a mile away for all he could do to reach it and take the strain off his screeching muscles.

He recognised where he was, in the cellars beneath the
Sickle Moon
.

On his last visit down here he had satisfyingly poked Emilio’s wife on top of that old chest over there. One of the men had left his hat on it, a black hat with a curled ostrich feather. What was it he had been told about Emilio’s wife? Ah yes. She was dead, hanged as a spy.

“So, you are awake. Perhaps you will be good enough to tell us why you are here?”

“Go suck yourself.” Perhaps not the wisest of replies. A fist connected with Jesamiah’s stomach.

“I ask again. Why are you here? We do not trust bastard pirates.”

“Just as well I ain’t no bastard nor a pirate then, ain’t it?” Another blow. Jesamiah grunted, what the heck – he had nothing to hide. “I am here with
Señora
Ramon Escudero. We’ve come to fetch someone’s daughter home to her dying mother.”

“Have you now? More likely you’ve come to steal our valuables.”

“Got valuables worth stealing ‘ave you? I ain’t noticed any.”

“Or maybe you’ve come to spy on us, to tattle tales to del Gardo, like you did last time.”

So that’s what this was all about. Del Gardo. By God he loathed that man! He struggled to loosen the cord chafing at his wrists, protested indignantly, “I ain’t no spy! Who the fok suggested I was? It’s a bloody lie!”

Pirate, bastard, whoreson… most insults he could tolerate for most of them were true. Spy? He was not a spy. Spies were weasel-gutted, black-hearted ferrets. Apart from ‘Cesca. She was a spy, well, she was spying on him.

It occurred to him maybe that was why he had not been able to get aroused when he’d had the chance to have her. Perhaps it was nothing to do with Tiola and woven spells. On the other side of the deck, perhaps it had everything to do with Tiola. That and a guilt of conscience.

One of the men, with a wicked scar slicing across his forehead, withdrew a knife from its sheath, ran the blade over the stubbled whiskers of Jesamiah’s cheek. “You need a shave mate. Shall I give you one?” He shifted the knife lower, moved it down Jesamiah’s sternum, prodded his stomach and stopped at his genitals where he poked the tip a little harder.

Jesamiah willed his body to relax, tried not to show fear. It wasn’t easy.

“I say you are a spy.”

“And I say I ain’t.”

Scarface brought the blade upwards again to Jesamiah’s throat and drew a trickle of blood just below his Adam’s apple. “I think it strange that not long after you were here last time, Emilio and his wife were strung up. You and the others – who was it now? Ah,
sí
, Taylor was your
capitán
. If I remember rightly, he and almost all his crew escaped the Tower and sailed away, unharmed.” The knife bit again. “Now how did that happen to be, I wonder? Talk for your freedom did you? Talked to Don Damian del Gardo about Emilio being a rebellious traitor to Spain?”

“Emilio was never a traitor, he was a good friend, none of us would have betrayed him! If you knew me before, then you would know that also!” It occurred to Jesamiah that he did not know this man, had met none of them, yet clearly they knew who and what he was. How was that so? Something here stank as rotten as old fish.

A door creaked open somewhere behind and to his left. A waft of air made the candles flicker, brought in the sound of talking and laughter from the tavern above. Footsteps descending wooden stairs, a bobbing light.

Closing his eyes Jesamiah prayed it was not a fourth person coming to add to the fun. What was it they wanted? He had told no lies here, admittedly neither had he told the whole truth, but they knew nothing of the indigo. If they did, would they not be asking where it was hidden?

“Leave him be, you great oaf!” Madelene.

“I apologise for my idiot of a husband,” she said as she set the lamp down on a barrel and indicated Jesamiah was to be released. “My dotard here,” she pointed to Scarface, “keeps his brains in his codpiece, and as his pizzle is only this big,” she indicated less than an inch, “that is not much brain.”

Grinning weakly, Jesamiah tried to shout not to cut him down, but it was too late. Scarface had pulled a keg over, climbed up and slashed through the cords with his knife. Falling heavily to the floor the jolt shuddered through Jesamiah’s body. He lay, winded, hurting too much even to groan, his body rigid as the restricted blood rushed into his hands and arms.

“Maybe it was you who betrayed Emilio,” he countered to Scarface. Pins and needles were shooting down his arms. “Maybe you wanted the
Sickle Moon
and found an easy way to get it?”

Scarface lifted his boot to kick out but his wife snapped at him to not be so stupid. To Jesamiah said, “My husband got that scar fighting the soldiers who came to hang Emilio and his wife. Emilio was his brother.”

“Ain’t always much love lost between brothers,” Jesamiah remarked hauling himself to his knees. Thought,
I’d ‘ave hung mine for them
.

With a huge effort of willpower he managed to get to his feet, massaging his wrists as he did so. He tottered to one of the racks, lifted down a brandy bottle. Finest French. That would do.

Seeing a glass on a shelf, Madelene dusted the cobwebs from it with the hem of her skirt, offered it to him. “‘Cesca has told me why
Capitán
Acorne is here,” she said to her husband. “Had you bothered to ask me, you idiot, this unpleasantness would have been avoided.”

Refusing the glass, Jesamiah unstoppered the bottle and drank straight from it. Aye. Finest French. He hoped ‘Cesca had kept the matter of the indigo – and the brandy – to herself. He did not want its whereabouts broadcast to the entire island.

“The
Capitán
is here to fetch home the daughter of
Señor
and
Señora
Mendez.”

A laugh almost broke from Jesamiah’s face, would have done had his ribs and cheeks not been so sore. Scarface’s expression at his wife’s announcement was a picture. First surprise, then puzzlement, then doubt. Every feature, every wrinkle, fold and crease was working to understand the implication. His laugh faded as Scarface finally digested the statement and spat it back out like a belch.

“Then she lies. Why would Frederico send a pox-riddled scum-boat of a pirate to fetch her? He would not be trusting the likes of him with a nun.”

After another generous swig, Jesamiah gingerly tested whether he could now flex his arms or not. He could, just about. “
Mira, te lo dije
, I am no longer a pirate. I was granted amnesty and I am here to fight for the Spanish with del Gardo’s fleet.”

The Spaniards laughed belly gusts of mirth. Scarface bent double, his hands resting on his knees. Tears of amusement rolling down his face he lifted his head to point at his wife. “And you call me the oaf? You actually believe this nonsense?”

He moved quickly, rising up, his fist bunching ready to land square in Jesamiah’s belly. Only Jesamiah was the quicker. He spun sideways, kicked, catching the Spaniard sharp at the back of the knee. Already off balance he toppled forward and Jesamiah finished the manoeuvre by smashing the bottle down on his head.

Brandy, blood and glass spread in a nasty puddle on the floor. Indifferent, Madelene stepped over her unconscious husband without much care, and selected a second bottle; good brandy but not the same expensive brand. She handed it to Jesamiah who was breathing heavily from the agony of protesting muscles.

“Anyone else?” he asked, holding the bottle by its neck and raising it high. The other two shook their heads, backed away.

Wandering over to the chest where so long ago Emilio’s wife had pleasurably serviced him, he tipped off the hat and sat, gulped down the brandy enjoying the warm fire as it slid down his throat. Wondered whether, if he drank the bottle dry, it would deaden the pain where the cat had cut him. Damn it, only a short while ago he’d thought he was on the mend. Bugger these stupid turds!

“My husband made a mistake,” Madelene said. “You are our guest. How can we make amends?”

Her face was blurring, her voice ebbing and flowing. Jesamiah had no intention of accepting an apology. He did have every intention of finishing the brandy, however.

Amends? Mistake? By God, when he was able to get to his feet again he would teach these bastards a lesson they would not forget in a hurry! But in a minute, not right now. In a minute, when the brandy was gone.

Nineteen

Monday Morning

Cold water splashing on to his face awoke Jesamiah abruptly. He moaned, pulled the now wet blanket higher over his head and muttered an expletive as would have shocked even his quartermaster, Rue.

Another dousing. “I suggest you wake up and get up. It is ten of the clock. The horses are saddled and I have been waiting for over an hour.”

Jesamiah thought of burrowing deeper, but once awake he rarely went back to sleep. He emerged from beneath the covers, ran a hand through his tangled hair. His mouth tasted as if it were filled with sand, his head ached and his eye throbbed. Touching it tentatively he winced. He could do with a shave too, his face was itchy. It would have to wait.

“That should have been tended,” ‘Cesca said, tossing his clothes at him as she retrieved them from the floor. “I assume you got drunk, picked a fight, then celebrated your victory with her?” Irritably she pointed at the covered, lightly snoring hump at his side.

Through the hazy fug of his spinning brain, Jesamiah gradually become aware that he was not alone in the bed. He frowned, peered under the blanket, shook his head in bewilderment and instantly regretted the action as the room spun dizzily for several turns.

“Don’t remember,” he confessed. “I remember three bastards asking me questions in a not very polite manner. And a bottle of brandy. Might ‘ave been two bottles. Don’t remember ‘er though.” He looked again. Mireya was naked and on her back, her mouth open.

Finding the second of his boots beneath the bed, ‘Cesca stood it with its pair. “I suppose you had no difficulty in accommodating her over-sized charm,” she said cuttingly, her expression rigid with disapproval.

“Can’t say as I recall what I did. Not often I forget those sort of charms though.” Half-hearted he attempted a grin, mimed holding large breasts, but feeling the pull of bruised muscles and clearly remembering receiving the blows that had caused them he swung his legs from the bed instead; stood, stretched. He too was naked.

‘Cesca suppressed a gasp, hastily looked away on the pretence of searching for something. His nakedness did not embarrass her, but the scars on his body were terrible. So many of them! The zigzag of white was patterned along his forearm, two marks on his chest from bullet wounds; newer scars on his thighs and buttocks and raw lash marks across his back! She blinked away shocked tears. He had been flogged, and only recently – how much he must have endured!

Unaware of her pity, Jesamiah let the room settle its whirling then reached for his cotton shirt that she had tossed to the bed, pulled it on, its length hiding any further need for modesty. Scratching his backside he wandered over to the piss pot. He looked at her, one eyebrow cocked upward. “Do ye watch del Gardo take a piss then?” he drawled.

Blushing scarlet, ‘Cesca whirled around, turning her back on him. Directing his stream of water, he said, attempting to appear unperturbed by her presence, “You ever ‘eard of Master Samuel Pepys?”

“Naturally. I received an excellent education. He wrote a vibrant description of the Great Fire that swept London during the reign of Charles II.”

“That’s right. 1666.” He finished urinating, yawned, searched for his breeches and pulled them on. “Did y’know he had a balcony built outside his upstairs dining room? He put a pot out there for his guests to use so they wouldn’t ‘ave t’leave the room and miss any conversation. Mighty civilised idea if y’ask me.”

Vaguely he was remembering the rest of last night. He had said something to Madelene about Mireya’s amazingly long legs – was that before or after they had offered her as recompense? His coat was strewn over a chair. Unsteadily, he checked the pockets, was relieved to find his money pouch was where it should be. Leaning his shoulder against the wall he closed his eyes while the room continued its mad spinning. He had been drunk many times but had never forgotten the pleasures of fornication before. He took pride in his lovemaking, even with paid whores he was never clumsy or negligent. Last time he was here he had spent an entire afternoon in bed with Mireya, and had still wanted more of her inventive delights. He sighed, either she had lost her touch or he had drunk more of that brandy than he realised.

To cover her embarrassment ‘Cesca snapped, “The horses are outside.”

Water, Jesamiah discovered, was in the jug on the washing stand. It was dusty and had a distinct brackish tinge as he poured some into the cracked china bowl and splashed his face and neck, then rubbed at his teeth with a finger. “I don’t much like horses.”

“I have no intention of going to the convent on foot, nor will a carriage take us. We are going into the hills where the tracks are narrow.”

“How do we fetch these barrels then?”

“I expect the convent has pack mules we can hire.”

Pulling on his stockings and boots, then his waistcoat, he mulled over what to say next. He was aware of the nunnery but he tended to avoid convents and monasteries. The second because celibacy horrified him, the first because being a nun, in his opinion, was a waste of a woman. He did not want to add to ‘Cesca’s obvious pique, decided silence was his best ally.

His hat, cutlass and pistol were heaped on a wooden blanket box in one corner. Buckling the scabbard across his chest Jesamiah took another look at the sleeping whore. She was not as pretty as she used to be, but then, no one was pretty compared to Tiola. He sat heavily on the edge of the bed again, his head sinking into his hands, guilt gnawing at his innards. Hell’s teeth, poking a whore was not a betrayal! Was it? Taking a doxie was nothing more than a few moments of personal comfort and release. It was not love, it was not passion. It was sex, nothing more. All the same, discounting the aborted attempt with ‘Cesca this was his first time with another woman since he had committed himself to Tiola. Tiola was the one he wanted in his bed, Tiola was the one he wanted to make love to.

Then he remembered his dream of seeing her with van Overstratten; the obvious pleasure they were sharing. He knew her Craft, knew she could put thoughts into his head. Was that her way of making it quite plain that she wanted nothing more to do with him? If so, did it matter who he bedded? This whore or ‘Cesca? There was no need to stay faithful. Tiola had gone, had sent him away, shut him out of her life. He groaned, tried to tell himself that it was not true, that Tiola would never be parted from him – but if that was so, why had she not spoken to him in their special way? Why did he feel empty and abandoned? He put his hand on his heart. Why was she not in here, with him, where he loved her?

Now he was gathering his senses last night was coming back to him. Mireya had been as drunk as he was. They had stumbled up the stairs together, got as far as undressing and she had more or less passed out. Had he taken her anyway, to prove he could do it? For the life of him he could not remember. He reached out to touch the sleeping girl’s shoulder, fingered her hair. He’d best leave her some money, in case he had. Even if that bitch of a landlord’s wife had given her for free, he would not take advantage. Whores earned little enough as it was.

‘Cesca was standing at the open door. Seeing him touch the girl’s hair raised her hurt again. He had rejected her and spent the night with a ragged slut. She was being stupid and childish to mind, but emotion and desire were two very difficult things to control. Jealousy was even harder.

“Did you manage to get it up for her, then?” she remarked spitefully. “Or did she have to work for her shilling? If you are not downstairs in fifteen minutes I will leave without you.” The words tumbled out from her mouth harsher than she had intended.

Ignoring the first part, mortified that she had realised his difficulty, Jesamiah answered as tartly. “Go then, that’s fine by me!” Then lied, “And since you wanted to know, aye, I filled her belly.”

Furious and ashamed at her outburst, ‘Cesca slammed the door behind her.

Jesamiah flinched as it banged, held his head tighter. Damn it, could the woman not at least try to be quiet? The girl in the bed turned over on to her side, began snoring again. He swore, crammed his hat on his head and went out, leaving the door wide open.

Scarface was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. He extended one hand, palm uppermost as Jesamiah slowly descended.

“
Diez escudos, por favor.
”

“
Qué
?”

“Ten escudos. We agreed ten escudos for the girl.”

Narrowing his eyes, his hand quietly dropping to his cutlass hilt, Jesamiah walked very close to the landlord of the
Sickle Moon
, and jabbed his shoulder with one finger. In English, said; “Listen bastard, I ain’t ever paid ten escudos for a whore, and I ain’t goin’ t’start now, savvy? Especially as the way I recollect things, we agreed she’d be on the ‘ouse on account of that little matter of a mistake you made.” He prodded harder. “In my book, you ought t’be paying me the escudos, and a damn sight more of ‘em than ten. Not even a fresh virgin would be enough recompense for what I’m sufferin’ this mornin’.”

As bluff went it was good, but then Jesamiah had a knack of knowing when someone was attempting to cheat him. He grinned, a nasty leer. “I’ll tell you this for free though mate, she’s lost ‘er talent an’ sailed on past ‘er prime. It weren’t nothin’ memorable.”

That should put a stop to any embarrassing gossip should it happen to arise. Jesamiah winced, wished he had not thought of that particular turn of phrase.

Feigning his usual cockiness he whistled as he stepped out into the sunlight, his hand thrust deep into his pocket to conceal the bottle of rum he had lifted from the bar as he had passed by.