Pirate Code (5 page)

“If you want me to help you Henry, I suggest you get someone in here who can give his word about divorce.”

Seven

An hour. A long hour in which the sun trundled its slanting rays over the stinking mess of the cell floor, and then another even longer hour. The church bell struck midday, Jesamiah was frantic. No one listened to his shouts and curses; no one even came to yell at him to be quiet.

If it were not for his private contact with Tiola he was certain he would have gone mad. She assured him, over and over she was alright, but Jesamiah had seen women flogged, knew exactly what to expect.

“Soddin’ open this door!” It was futile, but he kicked the cell bars again anyway.

“Shouting will give you naught but a sore throat.” The outer door opened. Governor Rogers himself stepped through.

Jesamiah opened his mouth to shrill abuse, was immediately silenced by the Governor’s raised hand, palm held outermost. “If you bawl at me Captain Acorne, I will turn right around and leave you in here for another two days at least.” He approached the cell, fumbled in his coat pocket for a lace-edged kerchief which he held fastidiously to his nose to inhale the cologne sprinkled onto the linen. The place stank abominably of vomit, urine and faeces.

“Captain Jennings has informed me of your conditions of agreement to serve the Crown, although I put it to you, boy, you are not in a position to bargain.”

“And I put it to you, Sir, that you want my help, therefore, you also ain’t in a position to bargain. There is a limit to those who can be coerced upon this island; a limit of one. And you are looking at him.”

Rogers tucked the kerchief away, linked his hands behind his back. He was a tall man, stout, the buttons of his elegant embroidered waistcoat straining over the bulge of his belly. He had once, in his youth, been slender and handsome but years at sea had left their sorry toll. One side of his face had been half shot away, the scars left behind, ragged and ugly.

“You over-estimate your importance, Acorne. I have several men I am considering to approach for assistance.”

Fixing the Governor with a condescending stare Jesamiah drawled, “Oh aye? Then why is it you are standing here in this shite-hole talking to me, not to one of those other clodpolls?”

Governor Woodes Rogers shifted his wig more comfortable. The day was hot, and although the dungeons were cold and damp, sweat was trickling down his brow. His wife insisted he dress correctly in woollen coats and horsehair wigs, items of attire wholly unsuited to the climate of the Caribbean.

“I have spoken to van Overstratten. He will not agree to an annulment. He is a man of God, and obeys God’s laws…”

Jesamiah interrupted, furious, “God’s laws? Where in the Bible does it say God permits a husband to flog his wife in public?”

“I warn you Acorne, I will not be shouted at. I do not have to be here.”

Choking down his anger and frustration, Jesamiah shut his mouth.

“I was about to add, however, as there are no children nor any form of dowry to be returned I am willing to intervene on your behalf, plead your case as it were. I cannot guarantee an outcome, but as long as you do not expect anything towards her keep from him, and realise he will not take her back when you find the barrel is empty for breeding.”

A scathing retort hovered on Jesamiah’s lips but the fight went out of him. He rested his forehead on the cold iron of the bars. Closed his eyes. “Risking my neck to find a lost spy? It stinks and I’m the fool, but if you will stop this punishment of my woman I’ll do it.”

Nearing the door Rogers shook his head. “Regrettably, I cannot stop it; sentence has been pronounced and recorded.”

Jesamiah’s anger flooded back with the force of a hurricane wind. “Well then, you can go to Hell on your own for your soddin’ spy! And fuck your bleedin’ rebellion!”

“I do not know why you are so concerning y’self over this, Acorne. A few lashes soon heal and women are used to pain, they are supposed to be child-bearers after all. I’ll see what I can do about the matter of divorce, however.” He tapped the silver knob of his walking cane on the outer door, seeking an exit.

For a moment of panic Jesamiah thought he was going to leave without freeing him. “Sir!” he shouted, forcing himself to sound contrite, “Sir, please! I need to be with her!”

“What? Oh yes, yes.” Pointing his cane at the guard who had opened the door, then at Jesamiah, Rogers barked, “Release this fellow.” To Jesamiah added, “I’ll be holding y’weapons though. I’ll not be permitting ye those until after this business is completed.”

The key grated in the lock and Jesamiah was out, pushing past Rogers who, despite being a portly man, grabbed hold of his arm with surprising swiftness. “And I will be having those ribbons from your hair, Captain. I know they are not mere fripperies to give as keepsakes to the numerous whores you romp with in bed.”

Growling, Jesamiah yanked them from his hair, threw them to the floor and ran, leaping up the flight of steps and out into the sunlight.

Rogers picked up one of the ribbons and coiled the ends around his fingers, pulled them taut, gave an experimental tug and then tossed the strands around the tied neck of a sack, using it as a stand-in victim. He crossed his arms, pulled, and the sack tumbled from its pile, spilling mouldy corn everywhere.

The sentry guard looked straight ahead, said nothing as Rogers coughed, embarrassed, and left. He did, however, retrieve the ribbons for himself and shove them in his uniform pocket.

Following more sedately in Jesamiah’s wake, Woodes Rogers was pleased with himself. Jennings had said the plan would work. Jennings was right. Mind, the cannon was only loaded and aimed, was not yet fired. Acorne was a pirate and Rogers knew not one pirate who kept his side of a bargain.

There was cheering and an audible rise of noise from the direction of the town. Rogers strode a little faster, best get this thing done first, then concentrate on coercing Acorne to do their bidding. It was essential for him to find Chesham. Most essential.

Eight

The whores were screaming abuse at the men, a few rotten eggs being thrown along with mouldering fruit and projected spittle, and their common shout of protest. There was not a woman in Nassau who wished Tiola ill, for reliable midwives were treasured. Enough women, even in the short time she had been here, had benefited because of her calm wisdom and dextrous skill. Every woman feared childbirth for too many did not survive its endurance; to be aware there was one among them who knew what she was doing, in itself, was a godsend, but to have a woman who could advise how to prevent a child being formed, or be rid of one? Among those who survived by selling their bodies to pleasure men, such a woman was welcomed indeed. And Tiola knew more; how to stop the milk-fever, ease the cramps of a monthly flux – how to prevent the pox of syphilis and cures for a variety of ailments and illnesses. She was a healer, confidante and friend, and the women of Nassau voiced their objection to this disgraceful treatment of her in vehement disgust.

The militia held them back, bayonets fixed into their muskets, more than one of the soldiers cursing as they tried to concentrate on the shuffling push of angry women, while glancing over their shoulders at one in particular. Tiola was a beauty. There were several men who were eager to see what tantalising secrets were concealed beneath her shift; many who were envious of Jesamiah Acorne. The only ones who stood silent, frowning disapproval or muttering abuse along with the whores, were the loyal crew of the
Sea Witch
.

Jesamiah swore repeatedly as he shoved his way through the crowd. Was all of Nassau here to gawp?

Rue appeared behind him, caught his arm. “It will be over in a few moments,
Capitaine
. Grit your teeth and bear it as she will be doing.”

“Like fokken hell I will!” Jesamiah thrust the grip aside and peeled off his hat and coat, dropping them into his quartermaster’s arms. His waistcoat followed, and he pushed his way through the last of the mob. This was not justice. This was repugnant, public entertainment.

The shouting eased as Governor Rogers appeared and stepped onto a raised platform as if he were a king mounting his royal dais. Already awaiting him there, van Overstratten, dressed in expensive, colourful silks, together with several other town dignitaries, including Henry Jennings.

“Out my way!” Jesamiah barked, forcefully hurling someone aside, his bile rising as he realised it was that sneering weasel, Dunwoody. They had met on only a few occasions and had taken an instant dislike to each other, a dislike that had rapidly expanded into solid hatred.

The Governor might have temporarily confiscated Jesamiah’s weapons but he had other things just as effective. He bunched his fist, rammed it, hard, into a personal and painful part of Dunwoody’s anatomy. Was satisfied to see the turd collapse to his knees, groaning and clutching at himself.

Elbowing aside someone else he recognised, although he could not recall his name, Jesamiah found himself at the front, hemmed in by several hundred men. Beyond them, the women were still calling and hissing their disgust and objections, but they could not push past the Militia to be of any service other than voicing their outrage. If something was to be done, Jesamiah would have to be doing it himself.

Dressed only in under-shift and skirt, Tiola’s wrists were already secured to the whipping post, her arms out-spread along the cross-rail. They had tied her lovely black hair into a crude knot at the nape of her neck. The Beadle, the law officer beneath the Constable in command of enforcing punishment, stepped forward, his fingers curling around the neck band of Tiola’s shift ready to tear it from her back.

“Hold!” Jesamiah thundered as he stepped into the open space in the middle of the crowd to stand behind Tiola, roughly shoving the Beadle out of the way with his elbow. “I admit my guilt of adultery and claim the punishment.” He pulled his shirt off, tossed it to the ground.

“You cannot!” van Overstratten spluttered as he jumped from the dais, his hand outstretched to swat Jesamiah aside.

“I bloody can mate!” Jesamiah yelled back, blocking the move with his raised forearm, restraining the urge to punch with the other. “I freely admit my guilt.”

He glowered at the crowd, silencing the mutters, shifted his challenging gaze to stare at Governor Rogers. “Or is it that this punishment is more about seeing a woman’s breasts exposed for all to gawp at Governor? Has nothing to do with the law and justice!”

Jesamiah paused, lifted his head as he added, “Tell this Dutchman I have the right. Aboard ship any man claiming guilt takes the punishment from the one convicted. That is our law, Captain Rogers. The code of the sea. Navy code. Pirate honour. Pirate code.”

Rogers looked at the gathered crowd, at the shabby men jostling forward in the hope of gaining a better view – and felt shame and self-disgust gorge in his gullet. He believed implacably in honour and loyalty, believed in what was right, what was wrong. It was wrong to bed another’s wife, but it took two to do the deed, and what man among these here present had not committed this self-same sin of adultery? He certainly had. And on more than the one occasion.

Acorne had spoken true: any self-respecting husband would have demanded satisfaction in private, would have met in the quiet of a dawn mist and shot the offender, or run him through. Or lost the argument.

Except, Rogers massaged his chin, rubbed at the constantly aching scar where his jaw had been shot away. Except, he did owe much gratitude to Master van Overstratten. It was he who financed the guardship that protected these waters from the rogues who refused to give up piracy, and the Dutchman was busting a gut to assist in improving the situation of dismal trade profits here in the Caribbean. Commerce owed much to him. Parliament – the Commons – almost entirely rich merchants, many of whom owned plantations in these colonies, rated Stefan van Overstratten very highly indeed. They would not be pleased to see him bested, especially by a pirate. If siding with Acorne meant losing van Overstratten’s financial patronage, ah, that would be a blow for the Caribbean, for Nassau, and for Rogers personally.

“The lash is for able-bodied men and convicts, Captain Acorne. Not for sea officers,” he said with a dismissive gesture. “You will be demeaning your rank.”

“Able-bodied men, convicts and women, Governor. I find the thought of flogging a woman also demeans my rank.”

Rogers cleared his throat, uncertain whether Acorne was strictly correct in this claim of rights. He searched quickly through the faces to locate Dunwoody; he would know. The man was here somewhere…saw to his disgust how many in the crowd had their hands hovering over the front of or inside their breeches. He pursed his lips, disliking the lewd overtones so clearly displayed in front of him. Damn protocol! He was Governor, he could do as he pleased.

“It is as he says, Master van Overstratten. It is his right.”

Alarmed, Tiola squirmed her head around. “Jesamiah, you cannot do this. It is not necessary.”

“You will not be telling me what I can or cannot do, woman!” He spoke fiercely, adamant, partially through anger, partially through his own doubt. He had never been on the receiving end of a flogging. Had witnessed several, had seen how the lash could cut to the bone; had seen with his own eyes the result of scars carried for life. He swallowed his rising apprehension. It was only twelve lashes. If Tiola said she could endure twelve lashes to the bare skin, then so could he. He settled his body close against her, his legs spread wide to balance himself, arms resting along hers, fingers curling into her hands. His back exposed, not hers.

Tiola closed her eyes, an initial relief flooding her, distress rapidly over-taking it.

~
My lover. The lash cannot harm me, it will hurt and harm you
. ~

Jesamiah ignored her, glanced up at Woodes Rogers. “Tell ‘em to get on with it.”

The Governor nodded in a signal to proceed, to get this day’s distasteful work done.

“Wait.” Van Overstratten’s mouth was taut with impotent fury – he might have guessed Acorne would damned interfere somehow. He gestured at the lash held in the Beadle’s hand. “This whip is a single strand intended for a woman’s finer flesh, not a man’s. How can that be justice? I demand a cat be used.”

Jesamiah swallowed; Tiola felt his body go rigid. He had not bargained on the cat-of-nine tails. Nine strands of knotted cordage, not one. Nine lashes for each delivered blow. One hundred and eight lashes, not twelve.

“You do not have to do this Jesamiah,” she whispered again. “I cannot be harmed.”

“Shut up,” he snapped. “I do have to do this.” His anger was a play-act to hide the quiver of fear and the nausea worming into his belly.

From somewhere, almost instantly, a cat was passed forward; someone must have been holding it, for usually a cat o’nine tails was made by the victim, as part of his punishment a few hours before it was needed.

The cat. Every sailor’s nightmare, particularly in the Royal Navy where discipline was harsh and adhered to by the book; a wicked punishment used sparingly by a fair captain or frequently by the many devils who were not. Not on a pirate ship; there was rarely a flogging aboard one of the Sweet Trade. When pirates delivered punishment it was judged by the entire crew through democratic discussion. Fines for lesser crimes, or the drudgery of the unpalatable night watch, or scrubbing out the ordure from the heads. For the more serious, marooning – being abandoned on a lonely shore with one keg of water, one pistol and one, solitary, shot.

The cat.

“Twelve lashes!” van Overstratten called, the satisfaction of what was now proposed unravelling to boast the promise of pleasant revenge. He leaned close to Jesamiah, his breath smelling of spiced wine and rich, Virginian tobacco smoke, his body odour of mild sweat masked by the subtle touch of cologne. “Are you sure you want to play the hero Acorne? It is not too late to change your poxed mind.”

“Go piss yourself, you bastard.”

Stefan laughed, stepped back a pace. Gestured to the Beadle. “Do your duty. And make sure you do it well.”

Jesamiah braced, every muscle clenched, waiting, his breath sucking in through his mouth as the first blow fell, stinging across his bare shoulders; the whistle of the nine strands, the crack and snap as nine thongs straked his flesh. His body pressed against Tiola’s. His, clenched, rigid and hard, hers soft and yielding, willing him to allow her to absorb his pain.

He gasped, murmured, “Sweet Mother of God!” Was it already a trickle of blood he felt, or sweat?

Some of the crowd, the tavern keepers, shop owners; the craftsmen, marines and sailors of the navy, those who had come to leer, reckoned the count. “One!”

The shout fell uneasily silent as a growl, like the low snarl of a panther, hummed from the watching pirates. The
rat-tat
,
rat-tat-tat
of their pistol butts drummed against leather baldrics, the stonework of a wall or wooden bollards. The
tap-tap
, of a musket stock or cutlass tip striking on the cobbles. An ugly murmur of disapproval joining with and rising above the condemnation of the whores’ rowdy catcalls. Pirates, degenerates, whoremongers and slovenly drunkards they may be, but they were also men who were bound together as brethren loyal to their own. And this deed being done to a respected Captain was disgracefully unacceptable to them, their running temper held in check merely by the recent-agreed amnesty.

Jesamiah released his held breath, inhaled, gathered himself for the second blow. Two. Eighteen stripes on his back. For a moment, as with the first blow, the raised lines showed white, then the skin split and blood oozed.

Three. No one counted now, save the Beadle’s assistant. Jesamiah knew for certain it was not sweat but the stream of blood. His hands grasped Tiola’s tight, desperate to hold on to his pride through her.

She closed her eyes, concentrated on entering his mind, met nothing except a shout of pain. Tried again. ~
Jesamiah! Yield to me, let me help you. I have been trying to tell you, I will not feel it.
~

Four. He moaned

Thirty-six open wounds seeping over his shoulders and obliterating the yellowed bruising and scarring set there from his brother’s previous abuse. He shut his eyes, nuzzled his contorted face into her neck, hiding the burning endurance from the judgmental, silent, stare of the watching pirates. If he cried out he would lose their respect. And his own.

The Beadle dipped the whip in a bucket of water to wash away the blood and snags of torn flesh. Brought it up, back, down. Five. Jesamiah groaned. He could not disgrace Tiola by passing out. Could not disgrace himself.

~
Let me do this for you, as you are doing this for me.
~

~
I…can…not…
~ Six. ~
Fokken hell…
~

~
Please Jesamiah. Please!
~

And he surrendered, let her whole being flood through and into his mind and body. Allowed her to completely unite with and possess his soul.

Everything fell into the distance as if a sea fog had suddenly swamped the entire island. Sound diminished, awareness faded, only this was not the cold and clammy discomfort of bleakness, this held the pleasantness of a midsummer morning mist. From Tiola he could smell the aroma of new-mown hay, and sweet-scented meadow flowers and herbs, all mixed with the salt tang of the sea; the odour of seaweed and tar, wet canvas and washed decks.

No sound, nothing except the sharp intake of his own breath and her comforting, slower breathing, the rhythm deeper and controlled taking the sobbing ache from his bursting lungs and gradually easing it slower, slower, slower.

Two heartbeats, his, thump-thump-bumping against hers. Her love bringing the racing lurch, the wild thunder crashing in his chest to a steady, calm, pace.
Ta-dump…ta-dump
.

The tangible feel of her soft warmth against his bare chest, her buttocks pressing against his loins as he leant into her; his body and mind entwined into hers, hers into his. Two individual beings fused as one, woven together as the warp and weft become the whole, as the solid and the shadow is one. Inseparable, torn only if wrenched apart by force.