Sea Witch (Sea Witch Voyages)

by Helen Hollick

  Jamaica had not been an ideal choice to find a crew and to re-fit the Alicia Galley – renamed Inheritance. She had needed guns and gun ports cut; extensive worm damage repairing, a new fore topmast and bowsprit, replacement sails. Kingston harbour had the best material and men, and as long as Jesamiah kept his face away from the fort, who was there to recognise him? Perfectly legal and innocent, he was a merchant selling his cargo of tobacco, re-fitting and having a decent bath and shave all at the one chance. He was glad to be rid of the excess of facial hair, preferring his more usual neat-trimmed moustache and jaw line beard.

  Henry Jennings had been a friend of Malachias Taylor, naturally, he and Jesamiah had spent a few evenings yarning together. Jennings was a privateer, ostensibly, in the Caribbean at the commission of His Majesty King George to hunt pirates. A pity, he had declared, there did not appear to be any.

  “They’re loitering along the Florida reefs,” he had complained as he poured another generous tot of rum for them both. “All turned salvage experts diving for treasure.”

  “Fools’ errand.” Jesamiah had responded. “Why put all the effort into collecting it, when the Spanish can do it for you?”

  Jennings had looked at him quizzically, and Jesamiah, grinning, had outlined his plan. “The King of Spain is shitting his breeches to get his bloody fortune back. And the Florida reefs are crawling with Spanish divers trying to find the sodding stuff, which is then,” he had paused, taken a long swallow of his drink. “Which is then shipped up the coast under heavy guard against us pirates.”

  He had laughed derisively. The Spanish idea of efficient guardships did not match his own; there was not a Spaniard he could not take.

  “The way to become rich, Cap’n Jennings me ol’ mate, is simple.” Jesamiah, rapidly becoming drunk, had banged the table with the flat of his hand, making the scatter of empty bottles and the sputtering candle leap. “I sail into wherever it is they’ve put this ‘ere store’ouse. I talk Spanish, I look Spanish, who’s to say I ain’t Shpanish? Least, not ‘til I shail out again with as much in me ‘old as m’ship can carry without sinkin’.” Enthusiasm and an excess of rum made his eyes shine, and his slurred speech degenerate into the lazy, shipboard pattern of talk.

  Impressed with the idea, Jennings had suggested it would be even easier to dance to that piped tune if Jesamiah would accept him as partner.

  The plan was simple, and as with most of Jesamiah’s simple plans it should work as sweet as honey. Except, to make honey you required bees. And bees if annoyed, stung. Spanish bees in particular – hence the need to practise with the guns. Just in case.

  Superiority in battle was obtained only by regular training, the raw energy of men, and teamwork. A second broadside of cannon fired simultaneously in under two minutes could be devastating, as Jesamiah to his cost had occasionally discovered. A cannon ball weighing six pounds fired at close range, even if it did not penetrate through the thickness of a hull, could send up a cascade of splinters that maimed as effectively as the shot itself. Or rip down the rigging and tear holes in the sails – and men. But guns were only as good as the gunners who manned them.

  Once fired, the heavy iron cannon had to be hauled in the old wadding, muck and residue swabbed out, and the whole process of reloading started again. It was this routine Jesamiah wanted to perfect. The quicker it was done the better the chance of winning. And staying alive.

  “You, lad,” Jesamiah called to one of the younger crew, there were several under the age of fifteen. “spread more sand on the deck behind number three gun. Look lively there, I ought not have had need to tell you!” Wooden decks became slippery when blood was running; sand helped men keep their footing.

  “Make ready,” Jesamiah shouted. “Run out the guns. Powder monkeys, on your toes!”

  The youngest boys aboard had the task of bringing the gunpowder up from the magazine in the lowest deck. Too dangerous to keep the stuff elsewhere, and even below the store was protected by curtains of wet canvas to stop sparks from flying in and sending the lot sky high, ship and crew with it. Raising his arm Jesamiah checked that the minute-timers were ready, paused, looked down the length of the gun deck.

  Do it for me lads, he thought; said aloud, “Let’s show Jennings he has a partner to reckon with, eh?” He spread his fingers dropped his hand, shouted, “Fire!”

  The guns roared, the ship shuddered as the cannon boomed out across the sea. The men worked hard, damned hard. They admired Jesamiah, a fair captain who never expected anything of any man that he could not do himself. Aside, he had promised a personal fortune at the end of this cruise.

  Run in, swab, reload, run out. The larboard battery went off a moment before the starboard, the gun captains yelling and cursing and urging their men on; the powder monkeys skittering about like the creatures they were named for. Men were sweating, the muscles in their arms and backs and legs aching from exertion.

  “One minute and twenty, Capitaine!” Rue shouted, elated, as the last gun hurled its shot into the sea. “They ‘ave done it!”

  The gun deck was awash with smoke and the stink of gunpowder and sweat. Jesamiah carolled his delight along with the cheering crew. “Well done! Well done my lads! Rum all round I reckon, that was as near as damn it to being perfect!”

  He strode forward, patting men on their backs, on their shoulders, shaking hands, his face a beam of genuine delight. Of course, they would have to do the same under enemy fire, which would be a different rig of sails entirely, but if they practised and practised again, the procedure would become second nature, whatever the foul conditions. Many pirate ships did not care a cock’s crow for practice, or discipline and order, but Jesamiah had made one thing clear. He was Captain and when there was work to be done, it would be done to the best of their combined ability. If anyone did not approve of his way of running things then they could clear off out of it. And forget the reward of Spanish treasure.

  He walked the length of the deck, back again, sharing the achievement of his men, smiling as a keg of rum was broached. Starting to head for the privacy of his cabin he halted, swung slowly around on his heel and fixed the nearest man with his formidable stare; held the gaze until his victim submitted and lowered his head.

  “One thing,” Jesamiah said with rigid authority, staring, one by one, at every man present, his dark eyes briefly locking into and holding each returned gaze.

  “The next time you grumble about my orders, if I hear any one of you scabrous dogs calling me a bloody bilge-sucker again you’ll be shark bait.” He snapped the last, loud and succinct. “Do I make m’self clear?”

  Several men looked away, ashamed. The few who had deserted the Royal Navy saluted. A general embarrassed, mumbled, answer rolled along the gun deck.

  “Aye, aye Cap’n.”

  Twenty One

  October – 1716

  “By the deep, nine; by the mark, eight.”

  Isiah Robert’s steady drone, in Spanish, and the regular splash of the lead-line sounding the rapidly decreasing depth of water as the Inheritance nosed her way through the sandbars, was the only sound – beyond the squeal of blocks, straining cordage and canvas, and the familiar groan of the hull. From the quarterdeck, Jesamiah surveyed his ship, the idle swivel guns, the length of white, scrubbed deck, the soaring masts and the reduced spread of sail. He could barely remember being so happy. Had he been younger than these two and twenty years – nearly three and twenty, it would be his birthday in nine weeks, come the fourth day of December – he may have been tempted to caper a jig. Except it would not be dignified for a captain to behave so childishly. He contented himself with a grin, instead.

  The Atlantic Ocean, around the 27º north latitude. Half a mile or so to the north–east of the starboard beam, a wide, brackish river shimmered in the evening sunshine and snaked away into mangrove swamps, lush trees and vegetation. Southward, stretching down the coast, mile after mile, the froth of breakers scurried up the slope of the beach, or washed over the
sandbars on which heron and pelicans, and a host of other wading birds were already beginning to forage for food as the tide fell away. The waves moved against the shore with a musical lilt, a rolling sing-song sound as it hushed in and out.

  Dense vegetation covered the dunes beyond the sand, the shorter stuff of sea oats and palmetto, broadening into taller, thicker sea grapes and wax myrtle.

  The current was very strong, the channel of deep water through the shallows no wider than two lengths of anchor cable. No captain in his right mind would risk bringing his boat in close along here without good reason. From the distance of a mile out Jesamiah had been tempted to shake out the reefs in his sails, loose the topgallants and stretch away for the open ocean. Were it not for the beckoning spirals of campfire smoke, the jutting, man-made jetty and the stone-built storehouse he would have done so.

  This was the coast where some of the Spanish Fleet had perished; this was where the fortunate ones who had survived the hurricane had been swept ashore, and had endured those first few terrifying days and nights of shipwreck in this desolate, God-forgotten place. Alligators roamed the mangrove swamps and hostile natives hunted the land that spread westward.

  As they nosed in, Isiah calling the depth, Rue careful at the helm, inching the Inheritance forward, Jesamiah used his telescope to observe the huts and bothies packed in along the far side of the dunes where the land dropped sharply away. Men were standing on the jetty, some with their arms folded, others fists on hips, many pointing – all of them with weary, annoyed expressions. They had not been expecting a second vessel to come in from the further salvage grounds many miles to the south, not on top of the one just leaving.

  The Spaniard had pushed her way from her mooring and unladen, slid over the shallows with comfortable ease. Her sails were gathering the wind as she came about and tacked. Once clear of the sandbars she would be setting course to fetch another load from the forty-mile stretch that was the graveyard of the lost treasure ships. Over one thousand men had perished with them.

  “And a quarter five,” Isiah’s voice was steady in its chanting. Jesamiah had patiently taught him how to say the words in Spanish. Planned everything down to the last, precise, detail.

  “Stand by fore and aft,” he said, his voice low, “Bring her up Rue, if you will.”

  Rue nudged Inheritance into the wind, her foresail backing and Jesamiah dropped his hand for the signal to bring her to. The yards came around, the spread of canvas shrank, the rasping sound of halyards, bunt-lines, clew-lines and brails racing through their blocks. Again speaking in Spanish, knowing his voice would carry to those watching along the shore, Jesamiah gave the order to drop anchor.

  The cable tumbled out, the fluked anchor splashed into the shallows. Neatly the Inheritance tugged at her anchorage and they put the gig over the side. Jesamiah taking his place in the stern, directing his coxswain to take him ashore.

  Somewhere out there, riding the swell, out of vision and lying on bare poles, was Henry Jennings. Half an hour until dark. There was much to do in the next half hour. The sweeps would be run out and the men would bring Inheritance to the jetty under oar. She appeared to be heavily laden – she was, but her cargo was nothing more valuable than rocks and barrels filled with seawater. A cargo which come nightfall would be dumped quietly overboard and, if all went well, replaced by something worth the carrying.

  First, Jesamiah had to convince whoever was in command that he was a legitimate Spaniard making a maiden voyage to this storehouse, his hold full of salvaged coin. He climbed up the weed-slippery rungs to the jetty. Discreetly, the men in the boat settled their fingers around the butts of the pistols thrust through their belts, or loosened their cutlasses. If things did not go well for Captain Acorne they would be required to move fast.

  As Jesamiah had hoped, the day had been hot and long the shore-men were weary and wanting their dinners and night entertainments. They were not best pleased at the prospect of having to unload another cargo. A short, rotund man of middle age, with curled moustache and pointed beard, ducked out from a mud and grass hut; from the braiding and style of his uniform, the man in charge. Disgruntled and gesticulating wildly, speaking in a torrent of abusive words as if there was no tomorrow, he stamped across the sand and on to the jetty.

  Raising his hands in supplication Jesamiah strode forward to meet him, assuming a meek expression he apologised profusely, his Spanish fluent and perfect, and produced two bottles of best brandy from beneath his coat. One of which he slapped with a flourish into the Spaniard’s hands.

  Jesamiah had to admire the tenacity of the Spanish. All this, once the alarm had been raised, built and operational within a few weeks of the disaster. The Dons always were quick on their feet when it came to the matter of gold.

  “My regrets, Admiral, the tide is ebbing and I am not familiar with this shore.” Deliberately, Jesamiah promoted the man’s rank, although it was doubtful he was anything above an ordinary captain. Playing to a man’s vanity always established a quick, easy relationship. “You surely could not expect me to risk running aground?” He laughed at his own jest, an expansive belly-rumble of mirth. “All that gold on the seabed once-over already. Wouldn’t do to have it snagged there again would it, Señor?”

  He slid his arm around the officer’s shoulders, steered him towards the hut he had emerged from. “I am in no lather to return to those shoals, it’s a devil of a job down there, you know – what with those scurvy pirates roaming on the edge of it all like basking sharks. Frankly, I do not know why I volunteered for the damned commission. If I had known it was to be like this I would have opted to go home and harass the British in Biscay instead.”

  Inside the hut, a table, two chairs, a wooden chest, little else except piles of papers and ledgers. Jesamiah stood inside the door, laid his right finger alongside his nose, his gold acorn ring glinting in the brief, vivid glow of the sunset. “Now, a night ashore would be most welcome, especially if...” he peered out at the distant tents and shanty buildings, deliberately keeping his attention from roaming towards the storehouse. “Especially if there are any women here?”

  Of course there were. They would have been brought in along with the supplies.

  He nudged the Spaniard with his elbow, whispered, “I have an itch needing a good scratch, if you get my meaning. What if I left my crew to lay the Cariola alongside and we unload at first light? She will be safe, no?” Jesamiah sat on the nearest chair. “I am not going anywhere, you are not going anywhere and the gold as sure as the sun shines, isn’t! Stand these good, tired men of yours down, Señor, mine will take care of my ship. What say you?”

  A little reluctantly the Spaniard set his bottle of brandy among the cluttered mess and seated himself on the far side of the table. Jesamiah handed over the ship’s papers. They were authentic, with only the name of the vessel altered. Gun practice had paid dividend; the real carrier of the documents was at the bottom of the Atlantic with all hands, minus her load of gold, silver and casks of gems, which were now stacked snugly in the Inheritance’s forward hold – the one portion of cargo that would not be jettisoned after dark.

  In the dim lamplight, the Spaniard frowned over every word written, Jesamiah prattling a continuous banter of nonsense. After a few moments he wavered, put his brandy bottle in his pocket and stretched across the table to reclaim the other one.

  “Of course, Señor, if you would rather get on with the work now? It will not take us long to rig tackle…”

  “Está bien, ningún problema,” came the quick reply as the officer made a hasty grab for the brandy and unstoppered it; drank straight from the bottle. “This appears to be in order. You can leave everything to your crew?”

  “Claro. Of course.”

  “Bueno, bueno. Excelente!” The Spaniard dropped the papers on to the pile, heaved himself up from his chair and gesturing to the doorway, invited Jesamiah to proceed outside. “Come, let me introduce you to a friend of mine, she has sharp nails, ideal for getti
ng into those places difficult to reach.”

  With night settling and the stars showing bright against the darkening blue, Jesamiah rested his arm companionably along the duped officer’s shoulders as they strolled, deep in conversation, towards the encampment. He lifted his hat, waved it in a circle, clamped it back upon his head and disappeared over the crest of the dunes, his trailing ribbons fluttering as an off-shore breeze scuttled in with the night.

  Nodding satisfaction at the received signal the men took the longboat back to the Inheritance – the Cariola – and under Rue’s direction added their weight to bringing her in and mooring her alongside the now deserted jetty. By the time Jennings brought his vessel silently into the cove, with no lights showing and the least amount of noise – warping her in, towing from the longboats – it was late and the Spanish salvage teams were either drunk or asleep. No moon, only the clear brilliance of stars studding the sky with silver light. Perfect.

  Before they were even moored, Jennings’ men were rigging hauling tackle to the main yard ready to sway the bullion aboard. Like a silent tidal wave men of both crews flooded ashore from the decks, knives and cutlasses drawn, bare feet padding. No pistols or muskets, there was to be as little sound as possible. The bray of drunken, boisterous pleasure-taking drifted from the encampment, drowning the choked-off grunts of the storehouse guards as their throats were cut, and the rustle of more than two hundred men working their way to raking in an easy-made fortune. The only misplaced sound, the sharp-bladed axe striking twice through the chain securing the doors. The only suggestion something was amiss, the steady flicker of moving shadows in the shrouded lantern light, as with organised efficiency the men transferred chests containing fantastic wealth from storehouse to ship.

  Strolling into the almost emptied storehouse two and a half hours later, Jesamiah was well pleased with himself. Just as he liked things, clean and simple. He would not be admitting to Jennings he had employed his time ashore in a three-some with a dark-skinned, slender-waisted beauty. What else could he have done? His new Spanish friend had insisted they share her, and afterwards it had taken both bottles of brandy to send the idiot to sleep.