Pirate Code

by Helen Hollick

  These headaches, and the debilitating tiredness, were covering her like a consuming fog. All she wanted to do was creep into her bed, curl up like a hedge-pig in winter and go to sleep. She was beginning to realise that she was not well, that there was something wrong – yet there was no illness about her body, no infection or disease. It was as if a cold, wet blanket had been thrown over her; as if all warmth and light had been removed. Maybe it was just this continuous rain grinding her spirit down? She forced the sluggish depression aside, handed Jesamiah his hat.

  He looked so handsome; she was proud of him. Did so love him. Ready, Jesamiah opened his cabin door and walked the few short yards along the enclosed corridor. He paused before stepping out into the open; took a breath and clamped his teeth, knowing his back would cause him agony as he ducked beneath the low beams supporting the quarterdeck. It was not so bad. It hurt, but it was not so bad. Tiola’s salves were doing their work.

  Out on the deck he stopped short. The entire crew was mustered, wearing their best outfits and lined to either side of the entry port where Rue and Isiah Roberts stood, similarly smart clad. Blinking back the brilliant sunlight dazzling his eyes and the sudden threat of engulfing, stupid, tears he stepped forward, Tiola slipping her arm through his.

  “Did you know about this?” he whispered. She shook her head, her own emotion overwhelming her.

  Bless them, bless them! Each and every one of the whoremongers! What better way to show support and loyalty for their Captain than by turning out as perfect and orderly as would any Royal Navy crew?

  As Jesamiah stepped forward, his hand entwined in hers, the grip tight with choking emotion, one of the men shouted, “Three cheers for Captain Acorne!” And the still afternoon air rippled with their tossed chorus of voices.

  “Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!”

  Every man respectfully touched his finger to his forehead as Jesamiah and his woman passed by, those few who had served aboard Royal Navy vessels saluting smarter, with more finesse. At the rail, Isiah lifted a whistle to his lips and piped the shrill announcement that a Captain was about to disembark.

  The final accolade was almost Jesamiah’s undoing – the men down in the gig at the foot of the ladder cleats, waiting for him with oars tossed were all dressed in clean white breeches, dark blue jackets and jaunty sailors’ hats. From where they had acquired this symmetry of uniform, Jesamiah could only wonder. Guessed the men of one of Rogers’ ships would be searching frantically for their missing best clothing come next Sunday.

  Stepping down, Jesamiah acknowledged the salute by raising his own hat, seated himself, dignified, in the stern as Rue took the tiller and gave the order to shove off.

  “I suppose this was your doing?” Jesamiah said as they slid smoothly away from the Sea Witch.

  Rue peered steadfastly ahead at the quay. “Moi? Non, it is nought to do with me, mon ami.” He nodded back towards the ship. “This was their own idea.”

  Jesamiah straightened his back, valiantly attempting to ignore the pull of torn flesh and the burning sear of intense discomfort. If they were honouring him with their devotion and respect, the least he could do was make out there was not a single damn thing wrong.

  Fourteen

  Aware of a prevailing atmosphere of unease, Jesamiah walked into the Governor’s first floor drawing room, removed his hat and offered a semi-formal bow to Rogers and Jennings. His back hurt too much to do anything else. Van Overstratten, to his relief, was not present, but by the full dress regalia of his rank Jesamiah guessed the third occupant to be Edward Vernon. He had asked about the new arrival on the row across, his men only too eager to supply information about the Challenger, wide-spread knowledge that had swept through the entire town like a dose of the squits. The Commodore stood, hands clasped behind his back, staring determinedly at the view of the harbour beyond the west window. The sword hanging at his side had an elaborate gold hilt and a dangling tassel. Jesamiah mentally snorted annoyance. This peacock was allowed a weapon, he had been forced to leave his in the entrance hall.

  Rogers trundled across the room, booming his laughter and a polite welcome, but sweat beaded his forehead and his handshake was limp and sticky. There was something wrong; Jesamiah could smell it as strong as the pungent body odour Rogers exuded.

  “Did ye not get me message lad?” Unthinking, Rogers offered a high backed chair, Jesamiah sat on the edge, his shoulders straight. He could feel blood trickling beneath the padding of linen Tiola had bandaged there.

  “And what message might that be?” he enquired, not bothering to mask his irritation. “I received no message.”

  “Did Dunwoody not inform ye?”

  “If he had, Governor, then I would not be sitting here asking, would I?”

  Quite probably Dunwoody had passed it to someone else, a ne‘er-do-well who had been paid for the errand but had made it no further than the nearest tavern or wench’s embrace. Dunwoody himself would not have attempted to come anywhere near the Sea Witch on his own, not even on official business. Any one of Jesamiah’s crew would have shot him without question before he came within fifty yards.

  At least Rogers had the courtesy of appearing disconcerted. “I sent him over to yer ship this mornin’ to tell ye there would be no need to attend here. I’m afraid,” he coughed, chortled a false laugh as if this was an amusing jest, “I’m afraid our discussion of yesterday is no longer viable. I’ll not be needin’ y’services after all, but I thank ‘ee fer the offer of assistance and apologise fer y’wasted trip ashore.”

  Rogers waved his hand at Henry Jennings seated on the far side of the room. “Tell ‘im would ye?”

  Jennings did not deign to hide his annoyance; if Rogers was not careful he could scupper everything. “Have you not heard? We are at war, Acorne. Commodore Vernon here has been posted to the West Indies to see off the Spanish.”

  Not missing the tone of heavy irony Jesamiah regarded Vernon, raised one eyebrow and said, imitating Rogers’ plum English accent, “What? All on y’lonesome? Good luck to ye, Sir.” For good measure added the irritating laugh. “Ha, ha!”

  Then he narrowed his eyes at Rogers, said formidably, his fingers twisting the new blue ribbons laced into his hair; “So if ye’ve got Vernon to kick del Gardo’s arse you’ll not be wanting me will ‘ee? Good. Give me Tiola’s right of divorce and a signed Letter of Marque and I’ll bugger off out of your horse-hair wig to harass the Dons in me own way.”

  “And turn pirate again?” The scorn in Vernon’s voice as he slowly turned to stare disapprovingly at Jesamiah was as sharp as his sword. “As I have already advised, Governor, once you grant these degenerates leave to sail, you will be inviting anarchy and insurrection into these waters. I will not permit it.”

  Jesamiah had never held respect for officers, British, Spanish, Dutch or French – all were pompous asses, their knowledge learned from books, not experience. Especially the well dressed ones who oozed wealth and social connection but little else. Know-it-all know-nothings the lot of them. Few understood the conditions here in the Caribbean, both for men and ships. The currents were strong, the shoals and reefs hidden; the hazards many and dangerous. Yet these upstarts dropped anchor with their written commissions and swaggering contempt, bent on wiping the pirates and the Spanish off the surface of the seas. So far none had managed to achieve either. Last year not one pirate had been captured, let alone tried and hanged. In part that was due to the regular backhanders various blind-eyed officials took as their share of plunder. In Jesamiah’s strong opinion, not one of them could catch a roped sea-turtle floating upside down on its shell, let alone a vessel of the Sweet Trade bristling with guns.

  Naval officers followed the rules, and rules did not apply out here where God had forgotten life existed. The Admiralty did not permit their captains to take the initiative and act as the pirates did, careening as often as possible; nor did the Admiralty allow provisioning from just any available source, legal or illegal. Naval ships had to re-stock
their holds at Port Royal, Antigua or Nassau. Damn fools. Was it any wonder pirates such as himself, Edward Teach, Charles Vane, Jack Rackham and all the other reprobates sailed circles around them?

  “Why would I be wanting to turn pirate when I have the Dons to chase?” Jesamiah queried, genuinely astonished. “Spanish holds are usually filled with more profitable gain than any English merchantman would ever carry.”

  “Why? Because you have no honour.” Vernon spoke to Jesamiah with contempt. Like dogs circling for possession of a discovered bone the two men were sizing each other up, hackles raised. “You are an ignorant brute with no concept of duty. You are a drunkard, a murderer and a thief. You will not have the intelligence to disregard your lust for English traders who would fall easy prey to your guns and swaggering insolence.”

  Rubbing his hands along his breeches, Jesamiah noticed the left knee was stained; it looked like blood. From yesterday probably. He got to his feet, put his hat on, grinned, confirming the accusation of insolence. “Compliments I can take by the bucket-load Commodore, but you missed out the important ones of liar, smuggler and whoremonger.”

  Vernon ignored the jibe. “I am here to fight the Spanish; to do so, I have orders to requisition whatever I need.” He walked over, stood in front of Jesamiah, one hand resting casually on his sword hilt. “I need to ensure that while I am engaged with the Dons, the scum I leave behind in these waters does not rise to the surface. I do not wish to be chasing renegades while my attention must be on this war. Therefore, Acorne, without my, or Governor Rogers’ express permission, no pirate vessel will leave this harbour.”

  “You’ll have a hard job enforcing that, ‘specially once you’ve sailed.”

  Vernon smiled. “Not if I have ensured there is no scum left to float. I need men, I need ships. The debris of humanity will have a chance to serve under my command. I shall expect the best of these lazy scoundrels to take the King’s shilling and then make my choice of which ships are most suited to expand my fleet.”

  Jesamiah stared at him, then at Governor Rogers and Henry Jennings; back to Vernon. “And you have the fokken gall to call me a pirate?” He stepped closer to Vernon, jabbed beneath the gold braid on his shoulder with one finger, poking three times. “If you come within a cat’s whisker of my crew or my ship, mate, you’ll find yourself in need of nothin’ more than a winding sheet.”

  Patting the air with his hands Rogers stepped closer, interjected, “Now, now I’ll have no seditious talk here!”

  Jesamiah rounded on him, “So give me my woman’s freedom, then get out of my way and out of my life.”

  At a loss of what more to say or do, his eyes pleading to be understood, Rogers shook his head. “You must realise it is out of my hands. We are at war, I cannot be dealing with a trivial matter of divorce.”

  Furious, disgusted – disappointed – Jesamiah did not wait to hear more excuses. “And I had you for an honest man? Well, to hell with you. All of you!” He spun on his heel and stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Rogers sighed. Pirates? Why had he elected to put himself among a host of bloody-minded, volatile pirates? “Go after him, Henry,” he pleaded. “Explain the situation as best y’can, eh?”

  “Yes, do,” Vernon snapped. “Tell him those who hinder the implementation of my orders shall hang as traitors.”

  Fifteen

  “Captain Acorne? Jesamiah! Heave to there man!” Henry Jennings called as he hurried at a shambling hobble down the stairs. To get attention he banged the stair rail with his walking cane. “Jes lad, please! Listen to me!”

  “Bugger off Jennings. I have no intention of having my ear bent to more of your lies and broken promises. I’m weighing anchor. Getting out of here.”

  Puffing for breath, his gout becoming more inflamed and wracking him with pain, Jennings caught up with him, grabbed his arm and swung him around. “Without a Letter of Marque and permission you’ll have Vernon on your heels, eager to hang you as an example to other rogues. Is that what you want? And what of Tiola? Your crew? If they sail with you they will be subject to the same fate. Think man, think!”

  “He’ll have to catch me first!” Jesamiah snapped, attempting to shake off Jennings’ grip and closing his mind to the possibility that Tiola might do as she threatened and refuse to sail with him. “None of his kind has succeeded so far.”

  “Because none of them know an arse from an elbow. Vernon, however, does.” Jennings gave Jesamiah’s arm another shake. “He is different. He knows what he is doing and is one of the rare few who do not always play by the rules.”

  Standing there at the foot of the stairs Jesamiah sighed wearily. He was tired, his back hurt and he did not want to run away. All he wanted was to be able to take Tiola as his legal wife and live in peace somewhere, it was why he had agreed not to run in the first place.

  Steering Jesamiah to his cluttered office Jennings ushered him to a seat, from a cabinet produced his own bottle of French brandy and two crystal glasses.

  “With this damned gout I ought not be drinking this stuff.” Nevertheless he poured a generous measure for both of them. “Listen Jes. Rogers could not speak openly in front of Vernon, he’d find himself in deep shite if he did. Most of our plans were, well, how shall I say? Unauthorised? You may not be aware, but Rogers financed the idea of this amnesty himself, convinced it was the way to preserve profitable trade in these waters. I happen to agree with him, which is why he has my support. Add to that, he is anxious to recoup a few financial losses and gain the political respect he deserves. Both of which he could have achieved by presenting King and Parliament with the colony of Hispaniola.” He shrugged, resigned. “Unfortunately, the usually highly incompetent Royal Navy has arrived in the form of the very competent Commodore Edward Vernon who will now do the honours and claim the kudos.”

  Jennings sipped his brandy as he settled himself deeper into the comfort of a leather chair. This office, although small and untidy was his personal kingdom, a treasured sanctuary where he could do as he pleased and, in his imagination at least, be answerable to no one.

  “I too want something, Jesamiah. I am no longer a young man. Aye, the fortune I’ve amassed will serve me well into my dotage, but a knighthood and a country estate in Suffolk would not go amiss.”

  “You want the dream, Henry, you chase it.”

  Setting his glass down Jennings shuffled through his papers, pushed a folded oblong of parchment towards Jesamiah. “Your Letter of Marque.”

  Jesamiah picked it up, read it and tossed it back on to the table. “It says here I agree to accept a King’s Commission. That means I’ll be under Vernon’s orders. Forget it.”

  “There is no other way you will be able to leave this harbour.” Jennings savoured more of the brandy, fixed his companion with a smile that was part friendship, part pleading. “We still want you to go to Hispaniola, only now there is the extra task of doing so without Vernon knowing about it. Accept a legal King’s Commission, sail out of here and slip quietly over to Santo Domingo; find Chesham for us. Please.”

  Jesamiah thumped the table with his fist. “I weren’t born yesterday Henry! You’re jumpy because you and Rogers are on the edge of losing all chance of filling your pockets with an easy profit!” He thumped the table again, harder, shouted, “I don’t want to fight for the bloody King, don’t give a damn about rebellion, lost spies or free trade. All I want is my woman!”

  Jennings took a deep breath, calmed himself, knew better than to shout back. “If you help us we’ll give you a quarter share of the first year’s trade profit.”

  “I don’t want your quarter shares, I already have more money than I know what to do with. Get van Overstratten to grant Tiola a divorce. That is my price. Can you pay it?”

  Jennings realised the irony. The only thing Jesamiah wanted was Tiola, the one thing van Overstratten needed was money. He was on the verge of telling Jesamiah of the Dutchman’s financial predicament but stopped himself. Van Over
stratten would never take Jesamiah’s money because he would never admit his problems to him. The stupidity of proud men!

  “Then I suggest you get down on your knees and beg for the Dutchman’s co-operation, beg him enough, he might agree.”

  Cramming his hat on his head, Jesamiah walked grim-faced towards the door.

  “Won’t need to. I’ve decided to shoot the bastard and have done with it.”

  Sixteen

  Taking his time, walking slowly, Jesamiah wandered along George Street, heading downhill towards the harbour. Rogers had already started making his mark on the town, at least in this, the wealthiest area. The streets here were not so rubbish-strewn and the pigs had been removed from inside the church, although their stink lingered. One or two of the buildings were even being repaired and repainted. The church clock struck, cracked and late as usual. Jesamiah half smiled; ah well, perhaps some of the Governor’s ideas for improving Nassau would take longer than others to complete. The clock apparently sat at the bottom of his list.

  He could see Sea Witch dozing at her anchor, tugging gently on the fore and aft cables as the lively wind scurried across the water. She was so beautiful. Her dark-blue hull, her three masts, square rigged sails furled, neatly trimmed. Her brass gleaming, rails varnished. She was stern-to; Tiola had the middle window open, was probably sitting sewing on the locker bench; he fancied he could hear her singing. Tiola had a beautiful voice, an exact pitch. Her songs, especially her favourite folk ballads and one or two laments, heart-achingly haunted the mind. Tiola was beautiful also. He did not want to lose her or his ship, ever. But if there was a choice, Sea Witch or Tiola? Jesamiah stopped walking, turned his collar up against another squall of rain and thrust his hands deep into the voluminous pockets of his long coat. If he had to choose? He had once, it seemed years ago, chosen Sea Witch over Tiola. He had expected her to join him aboard; it was not his fault she had been prevented from doing so, except, except…he had chosen his ship not his woman, and he had nearly – very nearly – lost Tiola because of it. He did not want to risk doing so again. But without the Sea Witch what would, could, he do with his life? There were always other ships; he had the money to buy several, to set up his own merchant business if he wanted, but he was as one with Sea Witch, they were partners, wedded and bonded. She was wife, mistress, lover, whore. She was his damn it! Both of them were his!