Pirate Code (28 page)

Twenty Four

The nuns called their rooms cells. Jesamiah could quite see why. Unpainted stone walls, a small grilled window with no glass, and not much more than ten feet by eight. Two blankets were on the bed; there was a shelf and a table on which stood a jug of water and its accompanying pewter laver. Nothing else. On one of the walls a crucifix was nailed; irreverently he hung his hat on it. His coat went on the hook behind the door and his boots, he tossed with a grunt of pleasure at their removal, to the floor. He chuckled. Not one of the nuns had dared find the courage to look directly at him, although he guessed several of the younger noviciates had been staring through lowered lashes. Wondering what they were missing?

“You’re a bad lad, Jesamiah Acorne,” he said aloud as he put his pistol and cutlass on the table. “Thinking shameless thoughts about those dedicated virgins. All the same,” he added, “I’d not say no to showing a few of them me wicked ways. Not ‘avin’ done it before they won’t know ‘owt is wrong if I can’t get it up will they?”

He stretched out on the bed, disappointed to find it was hard and unyielding. Soft down would have been nice; fell instantly asleep. Was awoken half an hour later by someone tapping on the door, and not waiting for a response, walking boldly in.

Regarding ‘Cesca, one eye half opened, Jesamiah drawled; “D’ye make a habit of entering bedchambers unannounced? Or is the privilege reserved for me alone?” With a sudden thought he sat up, regarded her suspiciously. “You’re not plannin’ on chucking water over me again are ye?” He patted the bed to show it was empty, “I swear I ain’t abducted some innocent novice and ‘idden ‘er under the blanket.”

Despite her resolve to be prim, ‘Cesca found herself laughing. He was so absurd! She amended her resolve, it had been a ridiculous one anyway.
If I am falling in love with him, God help me,
she thought.

Sitting on the edge of the bed she folded her hands in her lap, took a few moments to gather herself. Jesamiah lay back, re-closed his eyes. She would spit out whatever was stuck on her tongue as soon as she was ready.

“I have not been entirely honest with you,” she finally admitted.

“I know.”

‘Cesca glanced sideways at him. “This is not easy to say, Jesamiah, please do not make it harder for me.”

He grunted, threaded his fingers together over his stomach and waited.

“Can I trust you?”

Without opening his eyes he shook his head slowly. “I’m a pirate darlin’. The only thing you can trust about me is that you can’t trust me.”

She smiled. A good enough answer. “There are things you ought to know.”

“I’ve already guessed half of ‘em.”

She looked up sharply, her breath catching; he could not possibly have guessed!

“One thing’s for certain,” he said, sitting up and swinging his legs to the floor, “I’m laying a wager that Reverend Mother will be here long before she was expected.” He went over to his coat, fumbled in the pocket, brought out what was left of the rum. Holding the bottle up he offered her a drink first, she refused. There was less than a quarter of it left. He drank most it straight down.

“Ah, that’s better.” He wiped the residue off his moustache, “The only thing I ain’t figured is what the code words are for. I assume they’re just triggers.”

Her brows furrowed, puzzled. “Code words?”

“Sixteen and ninety seven. Nobody twitched until I said those numbers. It’s a date ain’t it?” He was walking about now, up and down the narrow cell, waving the empty bottle. “You all fair ‘opped a jig after I mentioned it. Even
Señora
Mendez.” He stopped before ‘Cesca, peered close into her face. “I’d lay a wager sixteen ninety-seven was the year del Gardo became Governor. Am I right?”

He waited for her to answer. She said nothing. He continued his walking. “Alright, Angelita then. No such nun? I saw how that old biddy’s eyes flickered. The name means messenger, an’ that’s what I am ain’t it? A messenger boy.” He stopped in front of her, took hold of the hair at the nape of her neck and putting a finger under her chin, tilted her face upward. ”Jennings was wetting his breeches to get me here and the cunning old bugger managed to contrive it didn’t he?”

‘Cesca closed her eyes, visibly sagged. It was futile to deny everything. “The code has been in place for months. Wickham set it in case anything happened to him. As it unfortunately did. And you are right about the date and del Gardo. When someone came from Nassau and mentioned that date, in whatever disguised form, we were to take him to
Señor
Mendez.”

“Who was primed with a second code word. His daughter’s name. Very clever. It was lucky I came across you right from the start then, eh?”

She shook her head. “Luck had nothing to do with it. Diego – James – knew that if Jennings sent someone he would be picked up somewhere and eventually brought to me or Mendez.”

“So you’re not spying for del Gardo then? You’re bluffing him?”

She half shrugged. “I do what I have to do. We have our supports in all villages. Several at del Gardo’s court.” She smiled up at Jesamiah apologetically. “We were expecting someone to come. It took us a while to be certain you were the right person; we had our doubts that you would be released so easily into our care.”

Jesamiah brushed his finger slowly down her cheek. His lips were very close to hers as he said, “Don’t you dare tell me I was beaten up last night as a way of making sure.”

She gasped. “No! That was nothing to do with me!”

He noted she had not denied it though. “That man with the ostrich feather hat. He was one of the bastards. He has been following us today. Is he del Gardo’s man?”

Very steadily she looked at him. “I do not know. He could be. Diego Wickham always suspected Mireya.”

He kissed her on the lips. Said, “And the indigo? Please don’t tell me there ain’t no indigo.”

She gave him a half smile. “My father-in-law’s brandy is here, Diego brought everything to the convent for safe keeping, disguised as provisions for the nuns; flour, grain, and such. It is the one place del Gardo would not dare search.”

Not quite the reassuring answer he wanted. He kissed her firmer, more insistent; moved his hand to inch up the folds of her skirt. “And what are you going to tell del Gardo about me?” he murmured.

Half way to putting her arms around him she pulled away. “The day I keep quiet, is the day my son dies. I have to tell him things. I try to keep it trivial but convincing.”

He nodded. “You told him about Emilio.”

Emphatically she shook her head. “No. He already knew. I did go to don Damian to plead for my husband though. Do you blame me? I was trying to save Ramon and his father from torture.” She looked at him steadily, tears pricking her eyes. “They were arrested after helping their friend, Malachias Taylor and Mereno’s son – you – escape.”

Puffing his cheeks Jesamiah sat on the bed next to her, his hands rubbing his thighs. Relieved. It was not Malachias who had betrayed Emilio then, thank God for that. He did not want to think of Malachias as a betrayer.

“That information don’t exactly make me feel any better. Because of me, Emilio and his wife were hanged – your husband killed and
Señor
Escudero tortured.”

The tears were beginning to trickledown her cheeks. She shook her head, took his hand. “No, not because of you. Because of whoever betrayed Emilio.” The tears were falling freely. “Del Gardo told me there was only one way to free my husband, and that was for me to sleep with him. I prostituted myself to get Ramon back. Only I didn’t know he was already dead.” She stared into Jesamiah’s eyes, hoping he would not despise her. “Months later, when he sent for me to become his mistress, I told myself it did not matter what I did, for I was already soiled and filthy from his foulness.”

Very, very gently Jesamiah kissed her again, only this time he did not touch her. “You are not soiled or filthy, ‘Cesca. You are very beautiful. And if I were your husband I would be proud of you.”

She rested her head into his chest and wept a little. Through her tears, sniffed, “Even though I must tell del Gardo something about you?”

Jesamiah stroked her hair, lowered his hand to her back. “I’m sure we can think of something plausible to keep him happy.” He shrugged; “I think I already suggested it once, why not tell him you have discovered who Chesham is – was? Even Henry Jennings didn’t know it, so I suspect del Gardo would bust a gut to have the information.”

She frowned. “Chesham?”

“Aye, you remember, Chesham. The poor sod who died. I was told he spied for England, that his identity was a well kept secret. Tell del Gardo I came here specifically to find him for Jennings; that I am bloody mad I found him to be very dead.”

She smiled, wiped at her tears. “I suppose it might be useful to tell him that.”

Jesamiah stretched out on the bed, he was very tired, did, desperately, want to sleep.

Turning slowly around, ‘Cesca laid her hand on his chest. “I was being silly last night and this morning. I’m sorry. I am scared for my son, and I so want to find a way to take him from del Gardo, so want to be free of that evil monster. But I am starting to love you Jesamiah Acorne.”

She sighed, picked up his boots and took them with her. They needed soles and heels. A good clean. The nuns’ cobbler would make a good job of all three.

Jesamiah was snoring gently. It seemed that making love with this pirate was never going to happen.

Twenty Five

Monday Evening

The rage that consumed Stefan van Overstratten was a new experience to him. Yes, he had been angry before – bloody angry – but never in such a fury that his whole body shook and his legs turned to marrow jelly.

He knew,
knew
, Mendez had lied to him! All his threats, his promises to burn the place to the ground, to throw the pair of them out into the wilderness had come to nothing. The Spaniard had consistently stated there was no indigo. Acorne had been there though, Stefan had discovered that much – a coin tossed to one of those skinny slaves. She had babbled it all; how a boat had tied up to the jetty, how the handsome man with curled black hair and a gold acorn dangling from his ear had swaggered ashore and then sailed away again. To fetch the indigo – van Overstratten was sure of it. Mendez was telling the truth, it was not at la Sorenta. Not now,
neen
. Acorne had it!

The Dutchman’s anger multiplied and then turned against Jesamiah. The bastard had taken everything he had. His ship, his wife, his pride, his fortune. Well Acorne would regret it!

He strode up and down the deck, peering every so often over the larboard rail. His sailing master had spotted a sail fifteen minutes ago – something large and moving fast, a distance off, but she had three masts, could well be
Sea Witch
.

The fact that she could be any ship at all did not occur to Stefan. He was willing it to be Acorne, praying it was. Nor did it occur to him that Jesamiah would not be with his own ship. There was no reason for him not to be, so why would he have even thought to ask Mendez?

“There she is Sir!” One of the hands leant eagerly over the rail, pointing, grinning his triumph. Then his enthusiasm faded into disappointment. “Oh. It’s a Spaniard. Probably the guardship.”

Van Overstratten grabbed the telescope from his sailing master, with shaking hands steadied it in the direction where the man pointed. It was all blurred. He could only see the sky, then sea, then… he swore. He had been so sure! So certain it was that pirate!

“Spanish,” he spat as he shut the telescope with a snap. “You are right, a damned Spaniard!”

“Begging your pardon Master van Overstratten,” the sailing master said with a certain degree of caution. “It is the English who are at war with the Spanish, not us Dutch. It would be perfectly in order for us to hail him. Would it not be possible that he has seen the ship we seek? Perhaps he would be willing to help? The
Sea Witch
would be a handsome prize for him to capture. And unlike us, he knows these waters.”

Van Overstratten nodded. It made sense. Good sense. “Catch her up, flag her down, raise a signal flag – I don’t know, do whatever you have to do, just attract her attention. I need to speak with that ship’s
Kapitein
.”

Twenty Six

Monday Night

The persistent knocking on Jesamiah’s door woke him from several hours’ worth of a deep sleep.

“Fokken hell, where does a man have to go to get a decent rest around here?” He rolled off the bed, found his legs gave way as he tried to stand, a combination of rough treatment from various boots and fists and whips, and a horse’s unyielding backbone. He grabbed hold of the wooden bed-head, massaged some life into his inner thighs, bent and straightened his knees, grunting and wheezing as he did so.

The knocking grew louder. “
Señor? Capitán Acorne
?”

“
Yo voy
! I’m coming.” He opened the door, rubbing at his groin. Found a nun he had not seen before standing outside. Hastily he shoved the rubbing hand behind his back and grasped the top of his partially unbuttoned breeches with the other.

In her early forties she had curves in all the right places, was a few inches shorter than himself and extremely pretty.
What a waste
, he thought.

“I would be obliged if you would get yourself dressed and to the courtyard. We must leave immediately.”

“Whoa, whoa, heave to there Sister! Why?” Jesamiah raised his hands, remembered his loose breeches and made a grab for them. “And who exactly do you mean by we?”

She handed him his boots. “They have been repaired for you. I am Juliana Maria, the Reverend Mother of this convent.” She smiled at him, not a shy, tentative little whisper, but a full broadside of confidence. “You would know me as Angelita Wickham.”

“So you do exist. Your mother was asking for you.”

“Her exact words were, I believe, ‘
I am ready for my daughter, Angelita, to come home
.’ Is that not correct? I have already spoken at length to ‘Cesca.”

Code. He had been right then.

“I’d be happier if I knew what was going on. This is like sailing into unknown waters without a chart on a cloudy night. I ain’t sure about hitting the rocks.”

“God will guide you,
Capitán
Acorne.”

He was not certain about that either, but kept his doubts to himself. The Reverend Mother drew breath, “I have no time to explain, please, just do as I say.” She handed him an ebony casket, about five inches long, three deep and four wide. The carving on the lid was exquisite, if somewhat macabre; a face of a man with scimitar fangs that appeared to be inlaid with a shimmering type of silver ivory. Delicate, thin-cut slivers of what could only be sapphires formed the eyes. No whites, just the blue jewels. For his shoulder-length hair the wood was polished to a high shine. On the side were howling wolves and coiled dragons. For all that he was obviously meant to be the devil, the creature was most wondrously beautiful.

“What’s this?” Jesamiah asked.

“It is for Captain Jennings, a thank you gift. I would ask you to deliver it to him.”

Jesamiah shrugged, tossed the casket to the bed. “Can’t promise it.” He had no intention of going anywhere near the man ever again.

“He would not have sent you if he did not trust you.”

Oh great
, Jesamiah thought. “I’ll try. Will that do?”

“I too have faith in you. Now, I am concerned about those men who were following you, we must be gone from here. We may need your pistol; ensure it is primed. Naturally, I do not possess a firearm.”

“Naturally.”

She whirled to leave, her habit and veil flying out like spread wings.

“May I ask…”

“No
Capitán
, you may not. We have work to do.”

Suddenly feeling as if he were steering with a shattered rudder, Jesamiah protested: “But the indigo? I ain’t leaving without my barrels!”

Hands on hips, head cocked to one side she turned to him. “The barrels and kegs we have are already secured on to pack mules. We are to take them to Puerto Vaca and load them aboard the
Kismet
. Please, get your boots on and,” she looked pointedly at his crotch, “button your breeches. We are waiting for you.”

Despite himself he was aroused. She was beautiful in an elegant, mature way. Her skin was flawless, her cheek bones perfectly angled. Wide, dark eyes. It did not seem fair or right, to Jesamiah, for a nun to be this alluring.

He grinned, content that his personal bits seemed to be in a satisfactory working order again; found his boots; arrayed his weapons as he liked them – pistol through his belt, with the canvas cartridge bag and powder flask in the hollow of his back. Cutlass nestling, like a lover’s familiar hand, into his hip. Everything handy and comfortable. He slipped on his coat, picked up the casket. It was definitely ebony because it was black, but it was an ebony like he had never seen before. He stared at the face, drawn to it, almost mesmerised, then curiosity got the better of him. He flipped the gold catch, opened the lid. Purple velvet lined the box, snugly nesting inside was a plain, gold, crucifix almost the same width and length as the padded interior. The gold would be worth a bit, but as a gift it was nothing spectacular. Shutting the lid he shoved the casket into his pocket. Put on his hat. Nothing he liked better than the prospect of a fight. Not that he had ever fought alongside nuns before, but he had discovered in the past that some first time experiences turned out to be quite enjoyable.

The courtyard was full of mules and about thirty men, some on horseback, others on foot. Hard, tough men; fighters bristling with weapons. Jesamiah touched his hat at the one with a trailing moustache who was watching everything with the eyes of a hawk. Their leader. He had to be. Gruffly, the Spaniard acknowledged Jesamiah’s respectful salute.

Not at all like a demure nun, the Reverend Mother was swinging herself up into the saddle. A servant held a horse for Jesamiah, not the scrawny, knock-kneed nag he had arrived on but a chestnut with clean lines and spirit. ‘Cesca was already mounted on another new, good horse.

“Don’t often see their sort in a convent,” Jesamiah remarked about the men, as flicking aside his coat and gritting his teeth, he set his foot in the stirrup and mounted. Lowered himself gingerly into the saddle, was pleased to find the ache of muscles was not too bad.

“That is because a convent does not often get the call to raise a rebellion,” ‘Cesca answered with a smile.

“So that’s what we’re doing is it?”

‘Cesca laughed, pointed behind her to where the hills rose black against the night sky, that although cloudy was clear of mist. ”Look,” she said, “we have been busy while you have been snoring.”

Against the blackness a flare of light, flickering and burning, bright and fierce. A signal beacon. There would be another in the chain, and another beyond that, Jesamiah guessed. “Just as well the rain’s backed off,” he remarked.

“We kept the beacons dry and they are saturated with tar, they would burn in any weather.”

Jesamiah had actually meant visibility could have been impaired but these people did not need him stating the obvious. They probably had an alternative method of communication. If they did not, well that was their problem, not his.

“And they indicate?” he asked, but his words were drowned by the noise of the pack mules being urged forward, each one led by a mounted man. The courtyard echoed with the clatter of hooves, braying mules, the shouts and a wild, spontaneous cheer as the leader kicked his horse into a trot and ducked out through the gate, the Reverend Mother close behind.

Not exactly a silent order
, Jesamiah mused wryly.

Rubbing at his beard, the extra growth beginning to irritate, Jesamiah was counting the mules as they were led through the gate. “I see twenty beasts,” he remarked. Did another quick tally in his head. “Eight carried one barrel, the rest two kegs apiece. By my reckoning, I make that thirty-two. Not exactly sixteen and ninety-seven is it?”

No one answered him.

‘Cesca had kicked her horse into a trot.

“Will someone tell me what we are bloody doing!” he shouted at her back, then cursed vehemently as his horse skittered sideways to avoid the kick of a belligerent mule.

“
Comencemos la rebelión
!” she called over her shoulder. “We go to start the end of that pig, Don Damian del Gardo!”

“I don’t want to get involved!” he protested. “I only want my indigo!” Guessing as he said it, that if there was indigo in those barrels, then ‘Cesca was as chaste a nun as he was a monk.