Sea Witch

by Hollick, Helen

  “With respect, Governor, he has no intention of seeking a pardon,” Phillipe argued, keeping his patience with difficulty. They had discussed this subject, up and down and in endless circles for the past hour.

  “We caught him in the act of preparing to make sail,” Stefan added, refusing to come further than the doorway because of the filth. “If he were to leave and continue with piracy, think of the havoc he would cause. Vane is already making himself a damned nuisance out there. With Acorne joining him…” He let the implication trail off.

  It was true. Charles Vane was becoming a thorn in the backside even after these few days, but there were several inconsistencies in all this. Henry Jennings had flatly stated there were no crew aboard the Sea Witch, that Acorne had been alone. And these two, van Overstratten and Mereno, clearly had a personal goal of revenge to achieve.

  “You must understand,” Phillipe said, from where he leant against the wall beside the open cell door, his voice slick with enticement, “my aim is to see an end to the pirates who are decimating our tobacco and sugar convoys.” He stepped forward to toe his boot into Jesamiah’s side. “This sorry specimen is one of the worst of the rogues. I am ashamed to admit he is my kinsman, although the fact he is my brother has not deterred him from attempting to ruin me.”

  He spread one hand. “If you deny my request Governor, then I may be forced to divert my portion of finances. You will need to seek alternative funding for your guardship.” He let the threat hang, poignant.

  For his own contribution van Overstratten expanded the threat. “To secure our generosity, all we ask is what we have already pleaded; while we are available to state our personal evidence you convene a trial and find Acorne guilty. He can hang this evening and our honour will be satisfied. A quick end to this sorry matter.”

  Mulling his thoughts Rogers ambled from the cell, his hands clasped behind his back, unsure. He did desperately require the money. This was going to be an expensive business harnessing these rogues into lawful behaviour – and the British Government had not been over generous with their aid.

  There again, Captain Jennings had put a significant counter argument. Many of these pirates had come to Nassau on trust. “Hang one while under your word of unconditional amnesty, Governor,” Jennings had pointed out, “and the rest will weigh anchor and leave. You will never entice them back and that will be an end to law and order – and profitable trade – here in the West Indies.”

  He was right of course. Rogers chewed his lip, sighed, stroked his grey-grizzled moustache.

  “Or I could consider increasing my aid,” Phillipe coaxed, sensing Rogers’ doubt. “Between us, van Overstratten and I could, with the right incentive, perhaps see our way to financing your guardship for two years instead of the one?”

  From where he lay on the floor Jesamiah coughed his mockery. “And I thought you were beyond corruption, Governor. How bloody naive of me.”

  Woodes Rogers chose not to hear. He did not consider payment intended for the general good of the community to be bribery. If the gold was for personal gain it would be different – but he had given his word; every pirate who came into harbour before the close of August would be offered a pardon. It had to include this fellow.

  Unconditional terms meant the slate was to be wiped clean of everything – of stolen goods and ships, of committing rape and murder. Which was why they were here in this stinking cell; Van Overstratten and Mereno were not interested in justice or pardons. They wanted vengeance against Acorne. This brutal treatment of the fellow, proved it.

  “Let me think on it,” Rogers said, making a partial decision. “I will let you know by noon.” He nodded curtly, the matter temporarily dismissed and hurried up into the fresh, clean air, pleased to be leaving the stink behind. A stink that was not the odour of human discomfort alone; a lack of personal honour and a lust for deliberate cruelty always harboured its own foul stench.

  Phillipe kicked Jesamiah’s broken ribs and his victim bit back a scream. “Rogers is not going to accommodate us, van Overstratten. He is going to allow this bag of scum to get away with all he has done to us.” Maliciously he kicked again and when his brother gasped, kicked a third time.

  Ruefully the Dutchman agreed with Mereno’s observation, answered, annoyed, “We ought to have hanged him last night as I suggested. We would have got what we wanted, quickly and quietly.”

  “What? A few minutes squirming at the end of a rope, pissing and shitting himself as his tongue swells and then it’s all over? I think not, sir! I think not!” Phillipe squatted beside Jesamiah’s head, whispered very quietly. “For humiliating me in front of my friends and, I suspect, for making a whore of my wife, I intend for you to suffer. Really suffer. You will end your life begging me to let you die.”

  “What more can we do?” van Overstratten protested, not hearing and reluctant to step forward on to the filth that squelched and stank and crunched on the floor. He glanced up at the low ceiling at one of the supporting roof beams. “Do we ignore Rogers and string him up ourselves? Here?”

  “It wasn’t my fault we had a lousy father,” Jesamiah gasped, surreptitiously trying to curl into a more protective position. Thought, It wasn’t my bloody fault he preferred me to you when he was at home.

  Leaning closer, Phillipe’s spittle dribbled on to Jesamiah’s cheek. “Are you suggesting the fault was mine?”

  Jesamiah returned the icy stare as best he could through the blood and bruising. “No…but we are…grown men…we ought not squabble over the failures…of our parents.” He spoke slowly, taking several shallow breaths to fight the pain. “Let me go. Let’s talk sensibly about this.”

  “You are pathetic,” Mereno jeered.

  Jesamiah closed his eyes, remembered all the hurts he had endured. All that he had suffered. Dreaded the thought that he was about to suffer them again.

  He had asked his mother once, when he was eight years old, why his father spent so little time with Phillipe, why he disliked him. As a child on the receiving end of the torments and the brutalities he could understand why he hated him, but not Father. Mama had smiled indulgently and ruffled his hair. Had told him not to be silly: “Qué sandez, mi niño…Your father thinks the world of you both.”

  But she had then added something else, something that as a child Jesamiah had not absorbed. Only now, remembering, crumpled here in this stink, with blood on his face and pain in his ribs and balls did he realise its significance. “He cannot look at Phillipe, he is too much like his mother,” she had said. “Your father’s first wife. He did so adore her.”

  Very quietly Jesamiah said, “I pity you Phillipe. You were so full of hatred, you never gave anything else a chance. You never will.”

  “Save your pity for yourself, I have no need of it.” Making a pretence at appearing thoughtful, Mereno stood, crossed the cell to join the Dutchman. “Rogers Governs New Providence, he holds no jurisdiction elsewhere.” He spoke slowly as if he were only now thinking of an alternative solution. Had in fact been calculating this for many months – and now it was all falling sweetly and effortlessly into place, aided by the stroke of fortune of trading with this Dutchman. He would not have persuaded Rogers even thus far on his own. But with van Overstratten as partner? He smiled, sated with pleasure.

  “What if I were to take this bastard to Virginia for trial instead? We do not hold with the fool idea of amnesties and pardons for pirates along the Chesapeake.”

  Jesamiah closed his eyes, through his split lip said, “If you give me to my brother, Stefan, I shall not reach Virginia alive.”

  The Dutchman carefully stepped over the debris, stood looking down at Jesamiah then hunkered to his heels and leant forward. He reached out a hand to peel one of the pirate’s soiled and bloodied ribbons from where it had stuck to a congealed clot of blood.

  “Do you know something, Acorne?” he said. “If that is so, what makes you think I care?”

  Twenty

  Tiola sprinted down the hill
ignoring the stares of curiosity following behind. A woman without cloak or coat, bonnet or outdoor shoes? Running? Even among pirates and their doxies she drew attention. Slithering to a halt on the rough boards of the jetty she saw Sea Witch across the harbour dozing peacefully at her anchor, as Jennings had said. She was as graceful and as beautiful as a slender thoroughbred against feather-heeled cobs. The sails on all three masts, fore, main and mizzen, were neatly furled with the yards set square, as if she had the discipline of a Royal Navy crew. The shrouds and stays were taut and freshly tarred, her rails gleaming from a recent coat of linseed oil. Her hull, blue painted, was clean, without dribbles of bird lime or trails of clinging weed. Twenty cannon, ten a side, sited with thought and care, their weight spread evenly along the waist and lower deck, their presence hidden behind closed ports. Two lanterns sat high on the taffrail at the stern, polished and gleaming. The busty figurehead, blonde-haired, pink fleshed.

  Chiding herself with reprimands at her stupidity, Tiola raked a hand through her hair, scattering pins and combs, sending the coiffured curls into a dishevelled tangle. Why had she not felt Jesamiah’s presence? Why had she not walked down here last night, as she had every other night to see if he had come? Why!

  Why? Because of the barricade he had built against her – the barricade he had needed to survive the chill of his own despair. Believing she did not care for him, he had blended into his surroundings and shut her out.

  It had not been her fault, but yet again she had failed him. She could not do harm to another living person, but at this moment Tiola was tempted to turn aside from the honour binding her to her Craft and hurl her power into the four winds. To destroy the whole damned lot of the human race for daring to hurt the man she so desperately loved.

  The spinning blackness of unconsciousness alternated with a red agony as Jesamiah felt himself being half lifted, half dragged. His legs and heels bumped up the steps slimed with slugs and snails, the double crunch of shells breaking beneath his captors’ boots. Outside, the sunlight dazzled his eyes. He tried to struggle as he became aware of what was happening and where they were taking him; the attempt was futile. His arms were trussed like a chicken ready for the spit and he was as weak as a kitten, helpless to do anything to stop them trundling him along the jetty and hauling him aboard a ship as if he were a barrel of cargo. As he would be helpless to prevent Phillipe doing whatever he wanted once they were at sea.

  Oh God, he thought, knowing what his brother was capable of. Then, resurrected out of desperation, hope suddenly sprang alive. There was something van Overstratten had said last night after they had bound his wrists and ankles and were dragging him, half conscious, from his cabin.

  Tiola was here in Nassau. In between the beatings they had delighted in telling him how she hated him, how she was here to see him hang. Van Overstratten had added his own crudity, explaining every intimate detail of his marriage to her. Jesamiah had schooled his face to reflect nothing, but the inner hurt at discovering she had turned from him and married this louse was as agonising as the broken ribs and the bleeding cuts. He was sorry to learn of Jenna’s death, bloody mad this bastard had blamed it on him – had Tiola thought so little of him to believe he would deliberately shoot a woman in the back? Had their months together meant nothing? And then, after the last beating, the Dutchman had said something. Jesamiah struggled to remember it – they had been pulling him along by his ankles. The Dutchman had spoken to Phillipe, had not intended Jesamiah to hear. A gull flew low, screeching – and the words came back to him! Her indifference is all pretence of course. Why she still loves this bastard I cannot understand.

  The barrier disintegrated, the shield his weeping soul had erected shattered, and in his mind he screamed the words he needed.

  ~ By all that is good, help me, Tiola! ~ And he felt her instant presence filling him, heard her wonderful, beautiful, comforting voice answer him!

  ~ Jesamiah? ~

  ~ Thank God! Oh thank God! Please Tiola, please help me, I’m in big trouble here! ~

  ~ Where are you? ~

  They were pulling him along the deck towards an open hatch. He guessed where they were going to stow him, down in the cable tier above the bilge, along with the rats. He had put his own prisoners down there in the cramped stench and blackness, although they had never been half beaten to death beforehand.

  Ignoring the protesting muscles he summoned the strength to shrug his captors aside, stumbled to his feet and lurched to the larboard rail; had some vague thought of throwing himself overboard. Better to drown now, quickly, than endure what Phillipe had in mind. He looked up, looking as well he could across the bay at his beloved Sea Witch. Probably the last time he would see her. And then he glanced at the jetty on the far side of the harbour.

  She was standing there, Tiola, her image as clear and close as if she were right here on this very deck in front of him. Her beautiful eyes meeting directly with his, her soul reaching out as it had when first he had seen her aboard the Christina Giselle – and all those years ago beside his mother’s grave! The realisation slammed into him with the same force as those kicks and punches. It had been her, Tiola! Her voice telling him to get up, to fight back. Bloody Hell! Why had he not seen it before? She had been there with him, right from the start. That was why she knew everything – everything – about him.

  Her overwhelming love flooded into and through him, shunting aside the dread in the pit of his stomach.

  ~ They lied to us Jesamiah. I have never stopped loving you. I never will. ~

  He had only a moment before they grappled him again and thudded their fists into his stomach, sending him to his knees gasping for air. He didn’t care, it had been long enough for him to find her again and he screamed her name aloud across the harbour.

  “Tio…la!”

  He was still in trouble, but Jesamiah was smiling as they chained him into the darkness. There was one thing van Overstratten and Phillipe had not counted on, one thing they had missed. They did not know Tiola Oldstagh was a witch.

  She saw them hit him, felt his agony, watched them drag him away, and she forgot every law of her Craft. She screamed. The high octave of her voice piercing and unnatural, the sound splitting the heavens as lightning ripping from thunder clouds. The wind rose to meet the keening sound and the sea lifted in anger as the witch howled her fury, and his name, across the harbour that separated them.

  “Jesamiah!”

  Anger consumed Tethys, her immense power exploding in a response of outraged protest to the furious sound that boomed and shouted and then fled away out to sea, carried by the rush of a gusting wind. The sky shuddered as that terrible scream tore across Nassau and swept over the entire island of New Providence.

  Summoned by the call made by one who had no right to enter into her realm and give impertinent command, Tethys echoed the shrilled, shouted name in her own sea-song voice; the sound of a white-foamed angry breaker crashing against rocks.

  ~ Jesssha..miah…! ~

  Birds, squawking and flapping their alarm swirled from their mast-head roosts, and as agitated as they, the sea rolled. A single great wave churned beneath the keels of anchored ships, sending them leaping and prancing, tugging at their cables; it slapped at the jetties and hurtled against the shore, the swirl of froth spewing up the steps and washing onto the sand of the beach. It swamped the tents and bothies, doused bonfires and the ardour of sailors coupling roughly and drunkenly with their whores.

  And still the residue of that distraught sound boomed with the shout of the wind and the crash of the sea.

  Twenty One

  Mereno grimaced at the sudden squall scurrying across the harbour, the disturbed birds, the whipping pennants and ensigns on the ships. Were they in for a storm? August was the hurricane season, not the best of months to be in these waters. He usually came earlier in the year, January and February, to ensure all was well on his wife’s inherited plantation. A good excuse to be away from the winter fogs that could pla
gue the Rappahannock. Alicia usually accompanied him, but he had not thought it suitable for her to be involved in this particular venture. A wise decision as it turned out, with his brother now chained like an animal down in the bilge.

  Despite giving her several beatings, Alicia had not changed her story. He was certain she lied. He intended to ask Jesamiah about it, see if, under his present circumstances, he still wanted to crow that she was a whore. Phillipe’s lips turned up into an unpleasant smile. Somehow, once he got started on what he intended to inflict upon his brother, he doubted Jesamiah would be crowing about anything.

  Courteously he spoke to the vessel’s sailing master, asking whether it was possible to make way immediately in view of a storm possibly brewing; was satisfied to hear the opinion that it was wiser to be on the open ocean where a ship could run, rather than be trapped at anchorage. The quicker they left this island behind the better, before Woodes Rogers learnt of what they had done. Van Overstratten was to cover Phillipe’s back by ensuring a sufficient amount of gold found its way into the Governor’s pocket but confident the Governor would be only too pleased to have the dilemma quietly solved. Phillipe had not been as sure of the Dutchman. He had expected him to protest against the plan, was surprised at van Overstratten’s delight; his only concern was the disappointment at not personally seeing Acorne hang, at not seeing for himself he was quite dead. Mereno had been able to reassure him on that.

  “He will be dead, Stefan, I promise you. If you wish I am happy to send proof; would his head suffice?”

  It was no idle boast. Standing on the quarterdeck watching the crew haul in the warping lines Phillipe was already planning what type of container to use. A pottery urn? A large glass bottle? Vinegar, he assumed, was best as pickling brine. Brandy would be a waste of good liquor. Or would it be wiser to coat the thing in tar? Preserve it that way? He thought he might keep the hands for himself, give another, intimate, part as a present to Alicia. He grinned maliciously, eager to see the look on her face when he presented her with her lover’s pickled prick and balls. The only lie Phillipe had made to Stefan; he no intention of permitting Jesamiah to die easily.