Pirate Code (32 page)

Thirty Six

Always a stickler for discipline, not one of Jesamiah’s crew dawdled or dallied when he said jump. Within a flicker of an eye they were hurrying for the boats and pulling for the
Sea Witch
. The
Kismet
’s crew had also been ensconced in the
Sickle Moon
, Jesamiah sent them running to load the gunpowder that should soon arrive at the jetty. Before joining them, he had his own small task to complete.

Taking the wooden stairs two at a time, he stamped along the corridor and kicked Mireya’s door open. She was naked, sitting astride a man, her head back, circling in time with her hips as she worked him to climax, her large breasts bouncing grotesquely against her stomach. Jesamiah grasped her loose hair and yanked her backwards. Her screech sounded like a scalded cat. The man’s roar of protest was abruptly silenced as Jesamiah’s cutlass rasped across the flesh at his throat.

“You got an objection, Travis, you can make it to me later in my cabin. Not ‘ere, not now. Fetch up y’breeches put y’tackle away and fok off. I want a private word with the lady.”

She was hurling abuse at Jesamiah, trying to kick out with her feet, scratch with her nails; hissing and spitting. Jesamiah had dealt with furious whores before, knew how to keep one at arm’s length. He pointed the cutlass at her belly, forced her to back away, shouted at her to shut up.

“Shut it I said! Stow it!” He raised his fist, making it seem as if he had every intention to hit her. She screeched again, fled into the corner of the room, grabbing up her gown from a chair as she ran; clutched it to herself to protect her nakedness.

“Now, I ain’t goin’ t’repeat this,” Jesamiah said. “Your pimp, or whoever he is, has buggered off with a fortune in rare diamonds. He’s probably half way across Hispaniola by now. I very much doubt he’ll be obeying orders and taking the casket he stole from me to Del Gardo. He’ll be finding a ship and telling himself how fortunate he is to be rid of the fat slut he’s left behind.”

Mireya hurled another string of abuse, cut short by Jesamiah’s cutlass pricking into her throat. “I’m doin’ the talkin’, not you.”

He lowered the weapon, wandered over to a small table that held combs, brushes, hairpins and pots and jars. He sorted through the clutter, grunted when he could not find what he wanted, went instead to the clothes press at the foot of the bed. Throwing the lid open he tossed out, one by one, the few, badly folded garments. A none too clean lace-edged petticoat made him smile. He put down his cutlass produced a dagger from where it nestled within his boot, began to cut away at the lace.

“You leave that alone you English pig bastard!”

“I can easily make you keep quiet,” he drawled as he pointed the dagger at her. He ripped the last bit of lace and unthreaded the strand of blue ribbon that was woven through it. Cut it into two suitable lengths and rapidly braiding a few strands of his hair threaded the ribbons through it.

“Now then,” he said, sheathing the cutlass but not the dagger, “I strongly suggest you pack what possessions you have, plunder your store of coin and find someone who has a little boat who can take you far away. Very far away. I wouldn’t advise you t’stay ‘ere, because they know about you y’see. They know what you are an’ ‘ow easily that tongue of yours clacks into the wrong people’s ears. I’m leaving ‘ere so I don’t give a shit about you. But there might be one or two on this island who aren’t as gentlemanly as me. Who wouldn’t stand ‘ere givin’ you a polite warnin’ but would merely remove your tongue an’ ‘ave done with it. Savvy?”

He left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. Was not surprised to hear what sounded like the chamber pot and the chair crash against it, accompanied by the resumption of a torrent of foul language.

The landlady, Madelene, was at the foot of the stairs, anxiously peering upward.

“I reckon its ‘er wrong time of the month,” Jesamiah quipped menacingly as he pushed past her. “Yours too, you traitorous bitch. You were made a widow a couple of hours ago.”

Thirty Seven

~You said you were going to help me. ~

~ No, Mother, I said I would think about it. ~

Tethys whined as if she were a petulant child. ~You promised me. ~

Rain made no answer, instead, she played with sending a spray of rain over a palm grove, and watched the leaves sway and bounce as she passed by. She paused above a mountain lake and studied her reflection in its perfect stillness. Was she pretty? No one had ever said she was. No one, not one person, had ever called her beautiful.

She asked her mother.

~ Am I beautiful? ~

Tethys was annoyed with her daughter. She slapped high waves up against a rocky shore and drove a tide inward into a river, washing away the banks and felling trees as she passed.

~ You? You are grey and black and you turn the land to mud. And when you lose interest you leave everything to dry and rot into dust. You? Beautiful? You are naught but an ungrateful wretch! ~

Hurt, Rain ran away, not caring what destruction she left in her wake.

She would ask the Witch Woman, she thought, but she could not find her. She searched, but still could not find her. Instead she saw the man again, he was striding up and down a wooden jetty, waving his arms at his men who were hauling barrels on to a boat.

He looked magnificent as he walked, his black hair tossing, his blue ribbons flying behind him. She liked blue, it was a nicer, happier, colour than grey. She wished she could be dressed in blue.

Wished the man could be hers, for unlike her, he and his blue ribbons were beautiful.

And then they had finished with the barrels and he was stepping aboard the boat, and the boat, she knew, was going to sail upon the sea. He was going back to her mother!

Thirty Eight

Thunder was rolling in from the open sea; storm-black clouds were streaming overhead, building thicker and denser by the minute. If the storms they had already experienced had been bad, this one promised to be worse. The sea was churning into a rising swell that slapped and ground at the keels of the two Spanish ships lurking beyond the river mouth. That was one hope in Jesamiah’s favour, the wind was wrong for them. All Don Damian could do was ride the swell – and he would have to keep relatively clear, for too easily he could be blown on to the rocky shore on the western side, or into the mangrove swamp, where the water ran too shallow for his keel.

In harbour, the
Kismet
was tugging at her moorings.
Sea Witch
anchored in the river, was lifting and dipping with each incoming wave that swept below her, to wash with a boom and toss of spray against the jetty and the shore. Jesamiah had secured his belt on the outside of his coat to stop it flapping and getting in his way. He tightened the buckle one notch. His cutlass, his pistol, bullet pouch and powder flask, had all gone across with most of the men to the
Sea Witch
. He would not be needing them aboard the
Kismet
.

Ensuring the last keg of gunpowder was roped into place in the forward hold, he nodded at the landsman to cast her off, yelled for the topmen to loose sail and meet her as she rapidly swung away with the wind the moment she was set free. Rue was wrestling with the tiller to keep control. They needed as much sail as she could carry. It did not matter if it was too much; they did not have far to go, as long as she held for as long as it took to reach
la Santa Isabella
. Glancing across at the
Sea Witch
, Jesamiah was relieved to see her, in the capable hands of Nat and Isiah, weighing her anchor, the men trundling around and around the capstan, hauling in the heavy cable. She was to follow behind, but ease over to near the swamp, and heave to in the lee of the wind. Shallow on the draught she could sit over there quite comfortably until she was needed to play her part. It would be a tricky manoeuvre, but
Sea Witch
was capable of doing it, even in this worsening weather.

Kismet
’s fore tops’l was set; main tops’l set. Jesamiah cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled angrily at the men aloft, asking what the fok did they think they were doing.

“Who said to reef? I never gave no orders for no reefs! Shake it out! Loose all sail, there!”

The orders went contrary to normal storm routine, but this was not normal. It was definitely not normal for a vessel to be making way as the sky turned black, with lightning splitting it almost in two. Nor was it normal for such a vessel to be heading bow-straight towards an enemy, but that was what the
Kismet
was doing.

“Is the gig away?” Jesamiah asked Rue.

The Frenchman nodded, “
Oui
, trailing right behind us as if she is a puppy-dog’s tail,
Capitaine
.”

Good. The risk was that
la Santa Isabella
, or the guardship, would open their ports and start firing, but the sea was so rough would they be fool enough to do so? They would be awash in minutes.

Without warning the wind hauled round three points and the
Kismet
lurched to larboard, her canvas cracking like shot muskets before she paid off again. They were nearing where the river widened and spilt into the sea, the waves had grown higher and lumpier, causing her to plunge and buck. She had too much sail; the masts and stays were creaking and straining. The crew were white faced, anxious. Several crossed themselves.

Sea Witch
, approaching her station, had been caught nearly aback, but Nat knew what he was doing. Jesamiah paid them no more heed. He had to concentrate on what he was doing here, else this whole stupid idea would be a waste of effort. The wind was shrieking as if it were an Irish Banshee and the rain tipped down as a solid sheet.
Kismet
dipped to below her forward rails as the open sea rose to meet her, came up again with water streaming from the forward scuppers. Already there were several inches sloshing around below deck. Jesamiah grimaced; if the powder or fuses should get wet…

Any minute now
la Santa Isabella
could fire at them, but so far she was too busy merely staying upright as the wind and sea tore at her. They were in trouble out there. The men aboard her were frantically trying to bring her round into the wind, but Jesamiah could see they had left it too late – they missed stays and she lumbered to a halt.

All Jesamiah needed were a few more minutes, but at sea, with a ship at the mercy of the elements, a minute was a long time. Anything could happen in those long, sixty seconds.

Another squall whooshed across the river mouth and caught the guardship. Further out than
la Santa Isabella
, not so well built, she was wallowing like a fat old hog. As the wind hit her, and the rain almost blurred all visibility, she suddenly laid right over.

Hanging on to the mizzen rigging Jesamiah almost lost his footing as
Kismet
also rolled, but lighter, better handled, she steadied, plunged on. The wind was howling around them and through the rigging, the sea yawning ahead, almost engulfing her bow as she dipped, the ship clawing her way out from the clinging grasp of Tethys’s lust and greed, as she struggled upward again.

Rue yelled something. Instinctively Jesamiah looked back at his beloved
Sea Witch
but she was in position and in no relative harm.

“
Non, non
! There, there!” Rue was pointing ahead, to where the guardship had been.

“My God, she’s gone down!” Jesamiah said, and cursed. Why could it not have been
la Santa Isabella?
But then that would have ruined everything. He did not want the sea to finish del Gardo, he wanted to do it himself.

This was it. They were near enough. The point of no return. Jesamiah hurried forward, slipping and sliding on the wet decks, ducking his face against each sweep of spray as it surged over the rails. He let himself down the forward scuttle, was relieved to find the lantern he had left there was still burning. Was satisfied that it was dry enough down here for what he wanted to do. He took up a slow-match, lit it, blew it to life. Held it to the hastily arrayed trail of fuses and waited those few precious seconds to ensure they were fizzing and sputtering towards the stacked barrels of gunpowder. Would they be sufficient, he wondered? Fawkes had reckoned he needed about thirty barrels or so to blow up Parliament. These few should be ample.

Whirling, he turned, ran back on deck, hurried aft. They had not seemed to make much headway, but with the hail and the wind and almost consuming storm-darkness it was difficult to see anything anyway. Anything except the big Spaniard looming ahead.

“Abandon ship you men!” Jesamiah called as he reached to take the tiller from Rue. “Get your arses off here.”

They did not need a second telling. Clinging to the cable rigged from the rails to the gig, they were out, over the side, coughing and spluttering as the sea tried all she could to wash them away.

In case they fell, Jesamiah had chosen these men especially for their ability to swim, though he guessed, with those fuses burning any man would have learnt pretty damned quickly.

Rue grabbed at him. “Come on, Jesamiah. Tie off the tiller, let us jump together.”

“I’ll hold her a few more seconds, go on, you go. Cut the gig free and row for the
Sea Witch
.”

“You are coming,
mon brave
?” Standing up on the rail, Rue hesitated, was suddenly sceptical and worried, his captain had been in a most peculiar mood this past hour.

“Course I am. Get going.”

Rue jumped.

“God be with you my friend.” Jesamiah had no intention of following him. His plan was simple. Sail straight for
la Santa Isabella
, plough into her, and blow her up.

In a maniacal way, Jesamiah found it exhilarating to stand on the shallow quarterdeck with the wind screaming its raging fury around him, matching his inner madness. The heavy roll and lift, sway and dip as
Kismet
lurched and tossed verging on near loss of control, as if she were a horse rearing then bucking, close to throwing her rider and bolting away headlong. He found the sheer effort of having to keep her steady as the sails cracked and billowed exciting, almost to the point of arousal. If he was to die, as he must, this was how he wanted it to be, pitching himself against the sea and the storm. And ridding the world of an evil bastard who raped women and murdered children at the same time. Why he was doing this he did not know. He was too angry, too hurt, to understand his motives. All he knew was that he wanted Don Damian del Gardo dead, and if he was to also die in the process, well, a quick end was preferable to the pain that was ripping his insides apart.

Every stay and shroud was vibrating and humming almost to screaming point. No captain in his right mind would be driving a ship so hard in such conditions, but Jesamiah was not in his right mind, and what did it matter if
Kismet
was tearing herself to pieces? In less than a minute she would be nothing but smoke and flame anyway. Another tearing cry of thunder shattering overhead, the rain fell hard, beating at him as if it were a woman pounding him with her fists. An explosion roared – Jesamiah started, fearing he had set the fuses too short, but it was the maintops’l ripping into a mass of flapping and twisting streamers. The
Kismet
slewed to starboard, he lost control.

The thunder was cracking so relentlessly that he was not noticing it any more. Lightning was flickering and streaking over and around and through the black clouds. A broken stay fell from aloft and was writhing about on its shackling halyards like a demented sea serpent. More would soon be following.

On the
la Santa Isabella
, no one had appeared to notice him – they were too busy gawping at where the guardship had been. Then someone saw the
Kismet
. Too late, for although she was yawing away from Jesamiah and he had totally lost steerage, her bowsprit was only feet from ploughing into the Spaniard’s bow – with a great rip of splintering wood her momentum carried her on and forward. Railings, timber, spars, everything was shattering, tearing and splintering and screaming her death knell.

Men were running about in panic aboard the Spaniard, shouting, pointing at the
Kismet
, waving their arms as if that would magically remove her from their own bowspirit. Was that del Gardo himself among them? Jesamiah could not be certain, for he was looking up into another face, one that was staring back at him in open mouthed horror and hatred. How van Overstratten had got to be standing there Jesamiah did not know. Did not have time to think or worry about it, for the fuses blew and what was left of the
Kismet
erupted into savage hell, taking the forward half of
la Santa Isabella
with her.

Tethys rose up in a wall of green water. The sea had claimed one vessel and the lives of every man aboard, but she wanted more, she wanted him! And at last, at last, as the remains of the
Kismet
burnt and sank, she had him!

The water filled Tiola’s mouth, the roaring in her ears shattering through her, deafening her as she sank with Jesamiah beneath the churning foam of water that was littered by burning debris and dead and dying men.

She was with Jesamiah, as one with him, felt every sense, heard every sound; took that last, instinctive, gasping breath with him, trying to keep air in his lungs as Tethys sucked him down.

~ Why Jesamiah? Why? ~

Tiola did not understand. She could not comprehend the deliberate wasting of his own life.

~ Why? Why! ~

He made no answer to her pleading cries. Perhaps he did not hear, perhaps he did not choose to hear. Perhaps, it was already too late for him to hear. She would not give him up without a fight! All she had to do was keep him breathing and get him to the surface.

Tiola rarely panicked, but on this occasion she did. She screamed and screamed as Tethys wove her embrace around him, screamed her agony and despair as Jesamiah drowned.