Unhurried, confident, Jesamiah stopped a few yards before the Governor and rising from another flourished bow, met the green gaze of a striking redhead seated beside the Spaniard. She met his startled expression passively, her mouth giving a small, amused smile.
“Señorita,” he said, offering her a nodded bow.
Annoyed, del Gardo took her hand in his own and glowered at Jesamiah.
His mistress? Certainly not his wife, whom Jesamiah knew had not, so rumour maintained, left her bedchamber since contracting smallpox from her husband several years ago. The tongues wagged that the disease had so ruined her face she dared not be seen, even by del Gardo. Returning the redhead’s smile Jesamiah wondered at that. More likely she shut herself away because of the whores her husband so openly bedded.
Ostentatiously resting his other hand on his sword hilt, del Gardo said in Spanish, “So, Mereno’s younger brat dares to enter my lair? Tell me, bastard boy, why should I not string you up here and now?”
Jesamiah’s guts recoiled. Before he was born, even before his elder half-brother, Phillipe, was born, their father and del Gardo had been sworn enemies. He had no idea of the full story behind the bitter animosity, assumed the hatred had arisen during the days when Charles Mereno had sailed as a buccaneer with Henry Morgan. He knew they had attacked Spanish ships and towns, violently looting, murdering and raping. But then, the Spanish had done the same to the English. This hatred was personal, went beyond the consequences of a war fought in the name of religion; it was rumoured that Mereno had cuckolded del Gardo’s father. But who knew the truth of rumour?
Vaguely, Jesamiah knew his father had left Morgan’s service around the time he had made his first fortune and subsequently purchased a tobacco plantation in Virginia. He had also adopted the name Mereno instead of a previous alias – neither that nor his original birth name had Jesamiah discovered.
Charles had married a Spanish lady who presented him with a son in 1686. Beyond those few facts, Jesamiah knew nothing more. She had been a first wife, had died when that son was no more than five years old. As Jesamiah understood it, his father had been so consumed by grief that he had abandoned the plantation and the boy and returned to the life of a privateer, well, to be more honest, to piracy. When he later met and married his second wife, also Spanish, the boy, Phillipe, had bitterly resented his father bringing home a replacement mother and a new baby brother. The bitterness had never wavered, had caused Jesamiah a childhood of such misery that it still haunted him.
Only now, standing before del Gardo, did it occur to him that there were more than a few unexplained gaps in the story. Jesamiah calculated a few figures in his head; he was nearly twenty-five years old, Phillipe had been seven years his senior. Whatever had happened had been more than thirty-two years ago. He knew del Gardo had recently turned fifty, so he had been barely eighteen when he had known Charles Mereno. Jesamiah mentally shrugged. Whatever the reason for the hostility, he doubted he would discover any answers here. Did not particularly want to hear them anyway. He returned his attention to what del Gardo was saying.
“To sail in as if you own the harbour, you are either a very stupid Englishman or have the nerve of the devil,” Don Damian sneered. “Which of the two is it?”
Answering, also in Spanish, Jesamiah retorted, “I remind you, Señor, my mother was the daughter of a Marqués and I have always understood my father to be half French. I concede I was born in England, but as I spent no more than my first days there I do not consider myself an Englishman. Stupid or otherwise.”
Del Gardo snorted disdain. “I heard the slut who spawned you was disowned by her father when she ran off with the pirate scum she claimed was your father. Neither of his wives had a right to any title except that of whore.”
Fiddling angrily with one of his ribbons, Jesamiah stared into Don Damian’s fleshy eyes, the urge to strangle the fat bastard strong in his mind. He choked it down, let go of his ribbon and smiled congenially. “I pay little attention to rumour, Señor.” Added in English; “Personally, I have never believed the one about my father bedding your mother. He had better taste in women.”
Silence as heavy as stone, everyone aware something unseemly had been spoken. Several whispers, a rustling and uncomfortable fidgeting; questions being murmured behind shielding hands and another, renewed, fluttering of fans. None of the fancy-dressed, arrogant peacocks or their painted ladies spoke more than a little, very poor, English. As Jesamiah well knew.
Don Damian leant towards the redhead. “Qué dijo el bastardo?”
“The bastard said he believed his father knew your mother,” the redhead said in Spanish as she smiled at Jesamiah, her eyes gleaming with a sparkle of amused mischief. Added in English, “Is that not a suitable translation Captain Acorne?”
Jesamiah was momentarily taken aback. She was enchanting, her green eyes were pools to drown in and she was, unmistakably, English. He smiled back at her, dipped his head in respectful acknowledgement. “Aye, Señorita, I believe you have realised the gist of what I meant.”
She laughed, a low, seductive chuckle, as rich as dark, exotic, chocolate.
“Unfortunately, I must correct you. I am not a señorita. I am a widow.”
Jesamiah gestured an apology. “An understandable mistake, Señora.”
“Silencio!” Extremely annoyed del Gardo beckoned Jesamiah nearer, fastidiously dabbing at his nose with a scented handkerchief as he approached. The handkerchief was quite unnecessary for he had made Finch lug out the old tin bath last night and had wallowed sufficiently to ensure he was clean and relatively sweet-smelling, though now he was ashore, in this heat he did perhaps have a pungent whiff of sweat about him, but no more than everyone else in this airless room.
Don Damian’s eyes narrowed as he gazed repugnantly at Jesamiah, the hatred intense. Flicking imaginary dirt from his elaborately embroidered waistcoat he sat forward in his chair. “You take me for a fool, Acorne?” his voice was steel with menace. “It is you who are the fool. Hah! You thought to take me in with this, what you English call a ‘cock and balls’ story?” He looked around the room with a self-congratulatory smile as his court tittered obediently. Of a sudden his expression changed, his Spanish rapid staccato. “Well I will have your cock and balls; I will have them cut off and stuffed down your gullet before you will ever make a fool of Don Damian del Gardo!”
The Spaniard’s inept attempt at an English phrase would have amused Jesamiah had the image not been so foul. He shuddered, swallowed hard, concentrated on staring ahead at del Gardo. Despite himself, his hand made a slight movement towards his groin. He glanced at the redhead, realised she had seen and forced it into his coat pocket instead, willing his nerve to remain calm, his tense muscles to relax.
“I am here because I prefer to help Spain win this petty little war. Whatever your opinion of my mother, Señor, she was Spanish and as I said, I have reason to believe my father had French blood, I therefore owe no debt of loyalty to the English; they lie and cheat and go back on their given word. I prefer to fight for integrity and honour.”
“Yoro?” de Castilla commented dryly.
With a nod of his head, Jesamiah congenially agreed, “Aye, and gold. But I am not fussy as to whose gold. English gold is as good as any. I have no wish to serve King George of Hanover, nor his Parliamentarian arse-lickers. I have come to offer the service of my crew and my ship to Spain, and to you, Don Damian del Gardo.”
His expression that of insipid disdain, Don Damian waved the offer aside with a flap of his handkerchief. “Do you think me an imbecile? You will sail with my ships then turn your guns on them.” He stabbed the air with a pointing finger, his Spanish words rasping out harsh and accusing, “I say you are here as an English spy!”
Be pleasant. Do not even think about slitting this fat bastard’s throat. “If what you suggest is the truth then why would I enter your harbour so openly? If I was going to destroy your ships, Señor, I could do so as and when I please. I have
no need to risk my life by coming into your lair, all I would have to do is wait out there in clear water. You need someone who knows what he is doing. You need me, for you have only one decent vessel, the rest are disintegrating ships commanded by useless captains.”
De Castilla bristled and spluttered his indignation. “I am a perfectly capable captain! I…”
Jesamiah interrupted him. “You allowed a pirate to walk in to where you were in charge of protecting a warehouse full of salvaged treasure. Subsequently, you got drunk and bedded a whore with him. When you awoke next morning with a headache and your breeches round your ankles, the pirate was long gone and so was the treasure. I’m surprised you are so ready to boast of your capabilities Capitán. I’m also surprised your masters permit you to keep your manhood after such gross incompetence.” Jesamiah leant forward slightly, continued, “Or perhaps they didn’t.”
Emphasising his point, he made a grab and twist motion with his clenched fist. That robbery had been one of the easiest and most lucrative in his entire career as a pirate. Because of it, he was a wealthy man.
He returned his attention to the Governor. “If you are to impress your King you need me, not incompetents like that one.” He made an obscene gesture in de Castilla’s direction.
Don Damian del Gardo slowly hoisted himself from his chair, came to stand before Jesamiah and regarded him suspiciously, assessing his worth as though he were inspecting a new horse in the market. He circled around, walking with a measured pace occasionally touching his handkerchief to his nose. As much as he did not want to admit it, this pirate cockroach spoke correctly. Those ships at anchorage were in a state of neglect and he had morons for officers. It was the King’s fault! How was he to govern an island such as this with virtually no support from Spain? Unrest had spread from shore to shore across the island, nesting among poor freemen scrimping a meagre living, and even among the rich noblemen owning acres of plantation land. According to his spies, an uprising was imminent. These were rebels, native Creoles and settled Spanish alike, on the verge of hammering at his residence door and he had only a dwindling supply of shot and gunpowder with which to defend himself. Barely enough even for that – and the King expected him to fight a damned war as well? In the name of God, with what? He had nothing, not even, as this pirate had so casually observed, a seaworthy fleet.
All he had was his pride and his spies. He flicked his handkerchief irritably; spies who were proving to be as useless as his fleet. Not one of them had discovered precisely when the rebels would rise, who their leader was or how the supplies were getting in. And they were getting in. Somehow, they were getting in!
“Am I to trot a few paces? Show you my teeth and how high I can leap a fence?” Jesamiah asked.
Don Damian circled again, stopped a pace in front of Jesamiah, considering. If this man was genuine in his offer then maybe, just maybe he could rally some enthusiasm into the militia and sailors; new impetus, a new challenge might stir them up? Ah, but what if this reprobate was lying? It was not wise to invite the wolf into the fold, but then, a wolf near the fire could be the more clearly seen.
He caught his mistress also assessing this English pirate. How useful was she? How far would she go in obeying a direct command? So far she had only told him minor things and for some while he had been considering testing her loyalty. Perhaps this was a God sent opportunity. Decision made, he returned to his seat, crossed one leg over the other, the silk of his pale yellow breeches stretching almost to the limit over his buttocks and thighs. “Some of the things you say make sense, Pirate, but I do not trust you. And you are wrong. I require your ship, I do not require you.”
Jesamiah masked any reaction. “But you do require a crew, and my men will not sail her without me.” He let that sink in, then said, “Give me a chance to prove our worth.” One more push, one more lure to gain trust and attention. “When my pirate brethren in Nassau realise I have been welcomed here in Hispaniola, when they hear I am honoured and respected among the Spanish, they will also come. Nigh on every captain who has a ship to sail will flock to your side because of me, and because Governor Rogers has treated us most ill. The Brotherhood does not take treachery kindly.” He smiled expansively, spread his hands as wide. He was sincere in what he was saying, had no need to add false bravado or colour the water. They would come, pirates did not take heavy-handed interference lightly. “You could have an entire fleet of experienced seamen at your disposal Governor. Men who know how to fight. What have you got to lose by hiring me?”
Don Damian was convinced. This was an opportunity not to be missed, but under no circumstances was he going to show his eagerness too soon.
“Very well. But I will require proof that you are not here to spy or play tricks. To show their worth, and your sincerity, your crew will make sail, capture a suitable prize and bring it here to me. If I believe it to be of satisfactory value, then I will accept your offer.”
Jesamiah nodded, that was acceptable. “Sí, ningún problema.“
The interview was over. Del Gardo beckoned his mistress to join him and progressed towards the door. His entourage rose and followed as if it were a stately procession, the ladies’ wide skirts supported by whalebone hoops swaying as if they too were ships at sea. After several yards del Gardo stopped, turned and said with a sickly-sweet smile; “No Capitán Acorne, you will not be with them. You will be staying here. Your ship will be under Capitán de Castilla’s command. If your crew does not return with something worthwhile within ten days then I will assume you are lying and I will hang you.” He clicked his fingers at two of the guards standing to attention beside the doorway. “Lock him up.”
“You can’t do this!” Jesamiah spluttered, backing away, close to panic. “The Sea Witch is my ship, no one else captains her!”
“Ah, but I can do this. Your crew will do as I command or they will all hang beside you. And I assure you, Capitán, you will welcome your hanging for that will be the easy part.“ He walked away. “I will have you drawn and quartered first.”
This had always been the risk, that the animosity del Gardo felt for Jesamiah would blind him to common sense. What Jesamiah had said about the state of his fleet had not been bluff, it was true. But offering to fight for the Spanish? Where did common sense come into it? Stupidity was more apt.
Two
~ Do you have him? ~
~ He has seen me, heard me, though he does not recognise who I am. But I have him, yes. ~
~ Then give him to me! He is mine! ~
Rain was not going to be so obliging. Why should she give him up? She liked him. She wanted to keep him. ~ The Witch Woman says he is hers. I might decide that she is right and give him back. ~
~ No! No, I forbid it! I forbid you! ~ Tethys was furious, how dare her daughter disobey! How dare that sly, pale-faced, black-haired witch interfere! Acorne was hers! Hers!
She raged, built herself into a torrent of violence that she unleashed against the shore, seething her weight in a frenzy of white-foamed, high-curved, battering waves. But she knew little of the land, and where she spent her temper, among the marshes and sand banks of the Ocracoke, and along the uninhabited North Carolina coast, she did little damage, for she only disturbed the waterfowl and the indigenous boat people. Fisher-folk.
Rain, although she came from the sea, had never cared for her mother. She ran off oblivious to the turmoil she was causing. All she was interested in was him. The one the Witch Woman called Jesamiah.
Three
Saturday Night
Dark, small, spaces had terrified Jesamiah since his lonely days of childhood. A legacy of when Phillipe had shut him in cupboards, or the cellar, bolting the doors and leaving him there for hours on end. He would come to let him out, eventually, but always Jesamiah had feared that he would not. On the last occasion when Phillipe had chained him in the dank and stinking below-deck world of a cable tier and subjected him to things that no sane man would have done to another, if it had not been for Tiol
a and the crew of the Sea Witch he would have died. Died with the sound of Phillipe’s sadistic laughter ringing in his ears.
He could hear that laughter now, slithering under the locked door with the blade-thin strand of lamplight. He could hear Phillipe coming nearer and nearer, stop at the door, then walk away again. Next time, next time he would come in and…Jesamiah curled his arms around his head, moaned piteously. No matter that this was not a dank cellar but the highest room in the tower, that there was a grilled window giving air and a faint haze of cloud-covered moonlight. No matter that the man outside was a Spanish guard, not Phillipe, he was living in the dread-filled nightmare of his childhood. Summoning the courage to look up, Jesamiah stared at the window. It was cold in here, but he was sweating. Phillipe was dead. Dead! He, Jesamiah, had killed him. Why could he not forget the past, look to the future? He groaned again, closed his eyes. What future was there without Tiola? There had been nothing from her. She had not tried to reach him. There was a huge emptiness inside him, a black pit within his belly as if his guts had been ripped out. She was not with him. Tiola had gone.
Inhaling a steadying breath he reached out to touch the man who lay on the floor in a scrunched, untidy heap. Jesamiah had no idea who he was, why he was here or what he had done, all he knew was that the poor sod had been cruelly tortured and was close to death. The reason they had brought the wretch in here, as dusk had fallen, he could guess as well. To show what he faced if the Sea Witch did not return. Or if del Gardo changed his mind.
Misery permeated the entire tower; its rancid smell was of faeces and fear. Not death. Those chained in this tower welcomed the release of death. He had been imprisoned here before, chained like an animal with the crew of Malachias Taylor’s Mermaid, in a cell down in the depths of the foundations. For two nights they had suffered there. Two nights that had lasted a lifetime in his memory.
Pirate Code Page 17
